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WORKS.  New  Riverside  Edition.  With  several 
Portraits  of  Burroughs,  and  engraved  Title-pages. 
Printed  from  entirely  new  plates,  lo  vols,  izmo, 
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RiVERBV. 

Wake-Robin. 

Winter  Sunshine. 

Locusts  and  Wild  Honey. 

Fresh  Fields. 

Indoor  Studies. 

Birds  and  Poets,  with  Other  Papers. 

Pepacton,  and  Other  Sketches. 

Signs  and  Seasons. 

Whitman  :  A  Study. 

The  Same.     Each  volume,  i6mo,  gilt  top,  $1.25;  the 
set,  10  vols.,  uniform,  $12.50;  half  calf,  $22.50. 

WAKE-ROBIN.     Riverside  Aldine  Series.     i6mo, 
$1.00. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 
Boston  and  New  York. 


SIGNS  AND   SEASONS 


BY 


JOHN   BURROUGHS 


BOSTON   AND   NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

1897 


Copyright,  1886,  1895, 
By  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

I.  A  Sharp  Lookout .-1 

^11.  A  Spray  of  Pine 35 

ylll.  Hard  Fare 49 

IV.  The  Tragedies  of  the  Nests    ....  63 

^V.  A  Snow-Storm 89 

VI.  A  Taste  of  Maine  Birch 99 

VII.  Winter  Neighbors 127 

VIII.  A  Salt  Breeze 149 

IX.  A  Spring  Relish 163 

^X.  A  River  View 183 

X.  Bird  Enemies 201 

XII.  Phases  of  Farm  Life 219 

XIIL  Roof-Tree 247 

Index 265 


GV^- 


-2-  \^^ 


McT'^^r 


SIGNS  AND  SEASONS 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 

/^NE  has  only  to  sit  down  in  the  woods  or  fields, 
^-^  or  by  the  shore  of  the  river  or  lake,  and  nearly 
everything  of  interest  will  come  round  to  him,  — 
the  birds,  the  animals,  the  insects;  and  presently, 
after  his  eye  has  got  accustomed  to  the  place,  and 
to  the  light  and  shade,  he  will  probably  see  some 
plant  or  flower  that  he  had  sought  in  vain  for,  and 
that  is  a  pleasant  surprise  to  him.  So,  on  a  large 
scale,  the  student  and  lover  of  nature  has  this 
advantage  over  people  who  gad  up  and  down  the 
world,  seeking  some  novelty  or  excitement;  he  has 
only  to  stay  at  home  and  see  the  procession  pass. 
The  great  globe  swings  around  to  him  like  a  revolv- 
ing showcase;  the  change  of  the  seasons  is  like 
the  passage  of  strange  and  new  countries;  the  zones 
of  the  earth,  with  all  their  beauties  and  marvels, 
pass  one's  door,  and  linger  long  in  the  passing. 
What  a  voyage  is  this  we  make  without  leaving  foi 
a  night  our  own  fireside !  St.  Pierre  well  says  that 
a  sense  of  the  power  and  mystery  of  nature  shall 


2  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

spring  up  as  fully  in  one's  heart  after  he  has  made 
the  circuit  of  his  own  field  as  after  returning  from 
a  voyage  round  the  world.  I  sit  here  amid  the 
junipers  of  the  Hudson,  with  purpose  every  year 
to  go  to  Florida,  or  to  the  West  Indies,  or  to  the 
Pacific  coast,  yet  the  seasons  pass  and  I  am  still 
loitering,  with  a  half-defined  suspicion,  perhaps, 
that,  if  I  remain  quiet  and  keep  a  sharp  lookout, 
these  countries  will  come  to  me.  I  may  stick  it 
out  yet,  and  not  miss  much  after  all.  The  great 
trouble  is  for  Mohammed  to  know  when  the  moun- 
tain really  comes  to  him.  Sometimes  a  rabbit  or 
a  jay  or  a  little  warbler  brings  the  woods  to  my 
door.  A  loon  on  the  river,  and  the  Canada  lakes 
are  here;  the  sea-gulls  and  the  fish  hawk  bring  the 
sea;  the  call  of  the  wild  gander  at  night,  what  does 
it  suggest?  and  the  eagle  flapping  by,  or  floating 
along  on  a  raft  of  ice,  does  not  he  bring  the  moun- 
tain? One  spring  morning  five  swans  flew  above 
my  barn  in  single  file,  going  northward,  — an  ex- 
press train  bound  for  Labrador.  It  was  a  more 
exhilarating  sight  than  if  I  had  seen  them  in  their 
native  haunts.  They  made  a  breeze  in  my  mind, 
like  a  noble  passage  in  a  poem.  How  gently  their 
great  wings  flapped;  how  easy  to  fly  when  spring 
gives  the  impulse!  On  another  occasion  I  saw  a 
line  of  fowls,  probably  swans,  going  northward,  at 
such  a  height  that  they  appeared  like  a  faint,  wav- 
ing black  line  against  the  sky.  They  must  have 
been  at  an  altitude  of  two  or  three  miles.  I  was 
looking   intently  at   the   clouds  to  see  which   way 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT  3 

they  moved,  when  the  birds  came  into  my  field  of 
vision.  I  should  never  have  seen  them  had  they 
not  crossed  the  precise  spot  upon  which  my  eye  was 
fixed.  As  it  was  near  sundown,  they  were  proba- 
bly launched  for  an  all-night  pull.  They  were 
going  with  great  speed,  and  as  they  swayed  a  little 
this  way  and  that,  they  suggested  a  slender,  all  but 
invisible,  aerial  serpent  cleaving  the  ether.  What 
a  highway  was  pointed  out  up  there!  — an  easy 
grade  from  the  Gulf  to  Hudson's  Bay. 

Then  the  typical  spring  and  summer  and  autumn 
days,  of  all  shades  and  complexions,  —  one  cannot 
afi-ord  to  miss  any  of  them ;  and  when  looked  out 
upon  from  one's  own  spot  of  earth,  how  much  more 
beautiful  and  significant  they  are!     Nature   comes 
home  to  one  most  when  he  is  at  home;  the  stranger 
and    traveler    finds    her    a   stranger    and  a  traveler 
also.      One's  own  landscape  comes  in  time  to  be  a 
sort  of  outlying  part  of  himself;  he  has  sowed  him- 
self  broadcast  upon  it,  and  it  reflects  his  own  moods 
and   feelings;   he   is  sensitive  to   the  verge  of  the 
horizon:   cut  those  trees,  and  he  bleeds;  mar  those 
hills,  and  he  suffers.      How  has  the  farmer  planted 
himself  in  his  fields;  builded  himself  into  his  stone 
walls,  and  evoked  the  sympathy  of  the  hills  by  his 
struggle!     This    home    feeling,    this    domestication 
of  nature,    is  important  to  the   observer.      This  is 
the  bird-lime  with  which  he  catches  the  bird;  this 
is   the   private    door   that   admits   him  behind   the 
scenes.      This    is    one    source    of    Gilbert    White's 
charm,  and  of  the  charm  of  Thoreau's  "Walden." 


4  SIGNS  AND   SEASONS 

The  birds  that  come  about  one's  door  in  winter, 
or  that  build  in  his  trees  in  summer,  what  a  pecul- 
iar interest  they  have!  What  crop  have  I  sowed 
in  Florida  or  in  California,  that  I  should  go  there 
to  reap?  I  should  be  only  a  visitor,  or  formal 
caller  upon  nature,  and  the  family  would  all  wear 
masks.  No;  the  place  to  observe  nature  is  where 
you  are;  the  walk  to  take  to-day  is  the  walk  you 
took  yesterday.  You  will  not  find  just  the  same 
things:  both  the  observed  and  the  observer  have 
changed;  the  ship  is  on  another  tack  in  both  cases. 

I  shall  probably  never  see  another  just  such  day 
as  yesterday  was,  because  one  can  never  exactly 
repeat  his  observation,  —  cannot  turn  the  leaf  of  the 
book  of  life  backward,  — and  because  each  day  has 
characteristics  of  its  own.  This  was  a  typical 
March  day,  clear,  dry,  hard,  and  windy,  the  river 
rumpled  and  crumpled,  the  sky  intense,  distant 
objects  strangely  near;  a  day  full  of  strong  light, 
unusual;  an  extraordinary  lightness  and  clearness 
all  around  the  horizon,  as  if  there  were  a  diurnal 
aurora  streaming  up  and  burning  through  the  sun- 
light; smoke  from  the  first  spring  fires  rising  up 
in  various  directions;  a  day  that  winnowed  the  air, 
and  left  no  film  in  the  sky.  At  night,  how"  the 
big  March  bellows  did  work!  Venus  was  like  a 
great  lamp  in  the  sky.  The  stars  all  seemed 
brighter  than  usual,  as  if  the  wind  blew  them  up 
like  burning  coals.  Venus  actually  seemed  to  flare 
in  the  wind. 

Each  day  foretells  the  next,  if  one  could  read  the 


A   SHARP   LOOKOUT  5 

signs ;  to-day  is  the  progenitor  of  to-morrow.  When 
the  atmosphere  is  telescopic,  and  distant  objects 
stand  out  unusually  clear  and  sharp,  a  storm  is  near. 
We  are  on  the  crest  of  the  wave,  and  the  depression 
follows  quickly.  It  often  happens  that  clouds  are 
not  so  indicative  of  a  storm  as  the  total  absence  of 
clouds.  In  this  state  of  the  atmosphere  the  stars 
are  unusually  numerous  and  bright  at  night,  which 
is  also  a  bad  omen. 

I  find  this  observation  confirmed  by  Humboldt. 
"It  appears,"  he  says,  "that  the  transparency  of 
the  air  is  prodigiously  increased  when  a  certain 
quantity  of  water  is  uniformly  diffused  through  it." 
Again,  he  says  that  the  mountaineers  of  the  Alps 
"predict  a  change  of  weather  when,  the  air  being 
calm,  the  Alps  covered  with  perpetual  snow  seem 
on  a  sudden  to  be  nearer  the  observer,  and  their 
outlines  are  marked  with  great  distinctness  on  the 
azure  sky."  He  further  observes  that  the  same 
condition  of  the  atmosphere  renders  distant  sounds 
more  audible. 

There  is  one  redness  in  the  east  in  the  morning 
that  means  storm,  another  that  means  wind.  The 
former  is  broad,  deep,  and  angry;  the  clouds  look 
like  a  huge  bed  of  burning  coals  just  raked  open; 
the  latter  is  softer,  more  vapory,  and  more  widely 
extended.  Just  at  the  point  where  the  sun  is  going 
to  rise,  and  some  minutes  in  advance  of  his  coming, 
there  sometimes  rises  straight  upward  a  rosy  column ; 
it  is  like  a  shaft  of  deeply  dyed  vapor,  blending 
with  and  yet  partly  separated  from  the  clouds,  and 


6  '  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

the  base  of  which  presently  comes  to  glow  like  the 
sun  itself.  The  day  that  follows  is  pretty  certain 
to  be  very  windy.  At  other  times  the  under  sides 
of  the  eastern  clouds  are  all  turned  to  pink  or  rose- 
colored  wool;  the  transformation  extends  until 
nearly  the  whole  sky  flushes,  even  the  west  glowing 
slightly;  the  sign  is  always  to  be  interpreted  as 
meaning  fair  weather. 

The  approach  of  great  storms  is  seldom  heralded 
by  any  striking  or  unusual  phenomenon.  The  real 
weather  gods  are  free  from  brag  and  bluster;  but 
the  sham  gods  fill  the  sky  with  portentous  signs  and 
omens.  I  recall  one  5th  of  March  as  a  day  that 
would  have  filled  the  ancient  observers  with  dread- 
ful forebodings.  At  ten  o'clock  the  sun  was  at- 
tended by  four  extraordinary  sun-dogs.  A  large 
bright  halo  encompassed  him,  on  the  top  of  which 
the  segment  of  a  larger  circle  rested,  forming  a  sort 
of  heavy  brilliant  crown.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
circle,  and  depending  from  it,  was  a  mass  of  soft, 
glowing,  iridescent  vapor.  On  either  side,  like 
fragments  of  the  larger  circle,  were  two  brilliant 
arcs.  Altogether,  it  was  the  most  portentous  storm- 
breeding  sun  I  ever  beheld.  In  a  dark  hemlock 
wood  in  a  valley,  the  owls  were  hooting  ominously, 
and  the  crows  dismally  cawing.  Before  night  the 
storm  set  in,  a  little  sleet  and  rain  of  a  few  hours' 
duration,  insignificant  enough  compared  with  the 
signs  and  wonders  that  preceded  it. 

To  what  extent  the  birds  or  animals  can  foretell 
the  weather  is  uncertain.      When  the  swallows  are 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT  7 

seen  hawking  very  high  it  is  a  good  indication;  the 
insects  upon  which  they  feed  venture  up  there  only 
in  the  most  auspicious  weather.  Yet  bees  will 
continue  to  leave  the  hive  when  a  storm  is  immi- 
nent. I  am  told  that  one  of  the  most  reliable 
weather  signs  they  have  down  in  Texas  is  afforded 
by  the  ants.  The  ants  bring  their  eggs  up  out  of 
their  underground  retreats  and  expose  them  to  the 
warmth  of  the  sun  to  be  hatched.  When  they  are 
seen  carrying  them  in  again  in  great  haste,  though 
there  be  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  your  walk  or  your 
drive  must  be  postponed:  a  storm  is  at  hand. 
There  is  a  passage  in  Virgil  that  is  doubtless  in- 
tended to  embody  a  similar  observation,  though 
none  of  his  translators  seem  to  have  hit  its  meaning 
accurately :  — 

"  Saepius  et  tectis  penetralibus  extulit  ova 
Angustum  formica  terens  iter:  " 

"  Often  also  has  the  pismire  making  a  narrow  road 
brought  forth  her  eggs  out  of  the  hidden  recesses  " 
is  the  literal  translation  of  old  John  Martyn. 
"  Also  the  ant,  incessantly  traveling 
The  same  straight  way  with  the  eggs  of  her  hidden  store," 

is  one  of  the  latest  metrical  translations..  Dryden 
has  it :  — 

"  The  careful  ant  her  secret  cell  forsakes 
And  drags  her  eggs  along  the  narrow  tracks," 

which  comes  nearer  to  the  fact.  When  a  storm  is 
coming,  Virgil  also  makes  his  swallows  skim  low 
about  the  lake,  which  agrees  with  the  observation 
above. 


8  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

The  critical  moments  of  the  day  as  regards  the 
weather  are  at  sunrise  and  sunset.      A  clear  sunset 
is  always  a  good  sign;  an  obscured  sun,  just  at  the 
moment  of    going  down  after  a  bright  day,   bodes 
storm.      There  is  much  truth,   too,    in   the   saying 
that  if  it   rain    before    seven,   it  will  clear    before 
eleven.      Nine  times  in  ten  it  will  turn  out  thus. 
The  best  time  for  it  to  begin  to  rain  or  snow,  if  it 
wants   to   hold   out,    is   about   mid-forenoon.      The 
great   storms   usually   begin  at  this  time.      On  all 
occasions  the  weather  is  very  sure  to  declare  itself 
before  eleven  o'clock.      If  you  are  going  on  a  pic- 
nic,  or   are   going  to  start  on   a  journey,   and  the 
morning   is   unsettled,    wait   till   ten   and  one  half 
o'clock,    and   you  shall   know  what  the   remainder 
of  the  day  will  be.      Midday  clouds  and  afternoon 
clouds,  except  in  the  season  of  thunderstorms,  are 
usually  harmless  idlers  and  vagabonds.      But  more 
to  be  relied  on  than  any  obvious  sign  is  that  subtle 
perception  of  the  condition   of   the  weather  which 
a  man  has  who  spends  much  of  his  time  in   the 
open  air.      He  can  hardly  tell  how  he  knows  it  is 
going  to  rain;  he  hits  the  fact  as  an  Indian  does 
the  mark  with  his  arrow,  without  calculating  and 
by  a  kind  of  sure  instinct.     As  you  read  a  man's 
purpose  in  his  face,  so  you  learn  to  read  the  pur- 
pose of  the  weather  in  the  face  of  the  day. 

In  observing  the  weather,  however,  as  in  the 
diagnosis  of  disease,  the  diathesis  is  all-important. 
All  signs  fail  in  a  drought,  because  the  predisposi- 
tion, the  diathesis,  is  so  strongly  toward  fair  wea- 


A   SHARP  LOOKOUT  9 

ther;  and  the  opposite  signs  fail  during  a  wet  spell, 
because  nature  is  caught  in  the  other  rut. 

Observe  the  lilies  of  the  field.      Sir  John  Lub- 
bock says  the  dandelion  lowers  itself  after  flowering, 
and  lies  close  to  the  ground  while  it  is  maturing  its 
seed,  and  then  rises  up.      It  is  true  that  the  dande- 
lion lowers  itself  after  flowering,  retires  from  soci- 
ety,   as   it  were,    and   meditates   in   seclusion;   but 
after  it  lifts  itself  up  again  the  stalk  begins  anew 
to  grow,  it  lengthens  daily,  keeping  just  above  the 
grass  till  the  fruit  is  ripened,  and  the  little  globe  of 
silvery  down  is   carried   many  inches   higher   than 
was  the  ring  of  golden  flowers.      And  the  reason  is 
obvious.      The   plant    depends    upon    the   wind    to 
scatter  its  seeds;  every  one  of  these  little  vessels 
spreads  a  sail  to  the  breeze,  and  it  is  necessary  that 
they  be  launched  above  the  grass  and  weeds,  amid 
which  they  would  be  caught  and  held  did  the  stalk 
not  continue  to  grow  and  outstrip  the  rival  vegeta- 
tion.     It  is   a   curious   instance   of  foresight   in   a 
weed. 

I  wish  I  could  read  as  clearly  this  puzzle  of  the 
button-balls  (American  plane-tree).  Why  has  Na- 
ture taken  such  particular  pains  to  keep  these  balls 
hanging  to  the  parent  tree  intact  till  spring  ?  What 
secret  of  hers  has  she  buttoned  in  so  securely  ?  for 
these  buttons  will  not  come  ofi".  The  wind  cannot 
twist  them  off",  nor  warm  nor  wet  hasten  or  retard 
them.  The  stem,  or  peduncle,  by  which  the  ball 
is  held  in  the  fall  and  winter,  breaks  up  into  a 
dozen  or  more  threads  or  strands,  that  are  stronger 


10  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

than  those  of  hemp.  When  twisted  tightly  they 
make  a  little  cord  that  I  find  it  impossible  to  break 
with  my  hands.  Had  they  been  longer,  the  Indian 
would  surely  have  used  them  to  make  his  bow- 
strings and  all  the  other  strings  he  required.  One 
could  hang  himself  with  a  small  cord  of  them.  (In 
South  America,  Humboldt  saw  excellent  cordage 
made  by  the  Indians  from  the  petioles  of  the  Chi- 
quichiqui  palm.)  Nature  has  determined  that  these 
buttons  should  stay  on.  In  order  that  the  seeds  of 
this  tree  may  germinate,  it  is  probably  necessary 
that  they  be  kept  dry  during  the  winter,  and  reach 
the  ground  after  the  season  of  warmth  and  moisture 
is  fully  established.  In  May,  just  as  the  leaves 
and  the  new  balls  are  emerging,  at  the  touch  of  a 
warm,  moist  south  wind,  these  spherical  packages 
suddenly  go  to  pieces  —  explode,  in  fact,  like  tiny 
bombshells  that  were  fused  to  carry  to  this  point 
—  and  scatter  their  seeds  to  the  four  winds.  They 
yield  at  the  same  time  a  fine  pollen-like  dust  that 
one  would  suspect  played  some  part  in  fertilizing 
the  new  balls,  did  not  botany  teach  him  otherwise. 
At  any  rate,  it  is  the  only  deciduous  tree  I  know 
of  that  does  not  let  go  the  old  seed  till  the  new  is 
well  on  the  way.  It  is  plain  why  the  sugar- berry- 
tree  or  lotus  holds  its  drupes  all  winter:  it  is  in 
order  that  the  birds  may  come  and  sow  the  seed. 
The  berries  are  like  small  gravel  stones  with  a 
sugar  coating,  and  a  bird  will  not  eat  them  till  he 
is  pretty  hard  pressed,  but  in  late  fall  and  winter 
the  robins,  cedar-birds,  and  bluebirds  devour  them 


A   SHARP  LOOKOUT  11 

readily,  and  of  course  lend  their  wings  to  scatter 
the  seed  far  and  wide.  The  same  is  true  of  juni- 
per-berries, and  the  fruit  of  the  bitter-sweet. 

In  certain  other  cases  where  the  fruit  tends  to 
hang  on  during  the  winter,  as  with  the  bladder-nut 
and  the  honey-locust,  it  is  probably  because  the 
frost  and  the  perpetual  moisture  of  the  ground 
would  rot  or  kill  the  germ.  To  beechnuts,  chest- 
nuts, and  acorns  the  moisture  of  the  ground  and 
the  covering  of  leaves  seem  congenial,  though  too 
much  warmth  and  moisture  often  cause  the  acorns 
to  germinate  prematurely.  I  have  found  the  ground 
under  the  oaks  in  December  covered  with  nuts,  all 
anchored  to  the  earth  by  purple  sprouts.  But  the 
winter  which  follows  such  untimely  growths  gener- 
ally proves  fatal  to  them. 

One  must  always  cross- question  nature  if  he 
would  get  at  the  truth,  and  he  will  not  get  at  it 
then  unless  he  frames  his  questions  with  great  skill. 
Most  persons  are  unreliable  observers  because  they 
put  only  leading  questions,  or  vague  questions. 

Perhaps  there  is  nothing  in  the  operations  of 
nature  to  which  we  can  properly  apply  the  term 
intelligence,  yet  there  are  many  things  that  at  first 
sight  look  like  it.  Place  a  tree  or  plant  in  an 
unusual  position  and  it  will  prove  itself  equal  to 
the  occasion,  and  behave  in  an  unusual  manner;  it 
will  show  original  resources;  it  will  seem  to  try 
intelligently  to  master  the  difficulties.  Up  by  Pur- 
low  Lake,  where  I  was  camping  out,  a  young  hem- 
lock  had   become   established   upon   the   end    of    a 


12  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

large  and  partly  decayed  log  that  reached  many  feet 
out  into  the  lake.  The  young  tree  was  eight  or 
nine  feet  high ;  it  had  sent  its  roots  down  into  the 
log  and  clasped  it  around  on  the  outside,  and  had 
apparently  discovered  that  there  was  water  instead 
of  soil  immediately  beneath  it,  and  that  its  suste- 
nance must  be  sought  elsewhere  and  that  quickly. 
Accordingly  it  had  started  one  large  root,  by  far 
the  largest  of  all,  for  the  shore  along  the  top  of  the 
log.  This  root,  when  I  saw  the  tree,  was  six  or 
seven  feet  long,  and  had  bridged  more  than  half  the 
distance  that  separated  the  tree  from  the  land. 

Was  this  a  kind  of  intelligence?  If  the  shore 
had  lain  in  the  other  direction,  no  doubt  at  all  but 
the  root  would  have  started  for  the  other  side.  I 
know  a  yellow  pine  that  stands  on  the  side  of  a 
steep  hill.  To  make  its  position  more  secure,  it 
has  thrown  out  a  large  root  at  right  angles  with  its 
stem  directly  into  the  bank  above  it,  which  acts  as 
a  stay  or  guy-rope.  It  was  positively  the  best 
thing  the  tree  could  do.  The  earth  has  washed 
away  so  that  the  root  where  it  leaves  the  tree  is 
two  feet  above  the  surface  of  the  soil. 

Yet  both  these  cases  are  easily  explained,  and 
without  attributing  any  power  of  choice,  or  act  of 
intelligent  selection,  to  the  trees.  In  the  case  of 
the  little  hemlock  upon  the  partly  submerged  log, 
roots  were  probably  thrown  out  equally  in  all  direc- 
tions ;  on  all  sides  but  one  they  reached  the  water 
and  stopped  growing ;  the  water  checked  them ;  but 
on  the  land  side,  the  root  on  the  top  of  the  log,  not 


A   SHARP   LOOKOUT  13 

meeting  with  any  obstacle  of  the  kind,  kept  on 
growing,  and  thus  pushing  its  way  toward  the  shore. 
It  was  a  case  of  survival,  not  of  the  fittest,  but  of 
that  which  the  situation  favored,  —  the  fittest  with 
reference  to  position. 

So  with  the  pine-tree  on  the  side  of  the  hill.      It 
probably  started  its  roots  in  all  directions,  but  only 
the  one  on  the  upper  side  survived  and  matured. 
Those  on  the  lower  side  finally  perished,  and  others 
lower  down  took  their  places.      Thus  the  whole  life 
upon  the  globe,  as  we  see  it,  is  the  result  of  this 
blind  groping  and  putting  forth  of  Nature  in  every 
direction,  with  failure  of  some  of  her  ventures  and 
the  success  of  others,  the  circumstances,  the  envi- 
ronments, supplying  the  checks  and  supplying  the 
stimulus,    the  seed  falling  upon  the   barren  places 
just  the  same  as  upon  the  fertile.      No  discrimina- 
tion on  the  part  of  Nature  that  we  can  express  in 
the  terms  of  our  own  consciousness,    but   ceaseless 
experiments  in  every  possible  direction.      The  only 
thing  inexplicable  is  the  inherent  impulse  to  experi- 
ment, the  original  push,  the  principle  of  Life. 

The  good  observer  of  nature  holds  his  eye  long 
and  firmly  to  the  point,  as  one  does  when  looking 
at  a  puzzle  picture,  and  will  not  be  baffled.  The 
cat  catches  the  mouse,  not  merely  because  she 
watches  for  him,  but  because  she  is  armed  to  catch 
him  and  is  quick.  So  the  observer  finally  gets  the 
fact,  not  only  because  he  has  patience,  but  because 
his  eye  is  sharp  and  his  inference  swift.  Many  a 
shrewd  old  farmer  looks  upon  the  milky  way  as  a 


14  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

kind  of  weathercock,  and  will  tell  you  that  the  way 
it  points  at  night  indicates  the  direction  of  the  wind 
the  following  day.  So,  also,  every  new  moon  is 
either  a  dry  moon  or  a  wet  moon,  dry  if  a  powder- 
horn  would  hang  upon  the  lower  limb,  wet  if  it 
would  not;  forgetting  the  fact  that,  as  a  rule,  when 
it  is  dry  in  one  part  of  the  continent  it  is  wet  in 
some  other  part,  and  vice  versa.  When  he  kills 
his  hogs  in  the  fall,  if  the  pork  he  very  hard  and 
solid  he  predicts  a  severe  winter ;  if  soft  and  loose, 
the  opposite;  again  overlooking  the  fact  that  the 
kind  of  food  and  the  temperature  of  the  fall  make 
the  pork  hard  or  make  it  soft.  So  with  a  hundred 
other  signs,  all  the  result  of  hasty  and  incomplete 
observations. 

One  season,  the  last  day  of  December  was  very 
warm.      The  bees  were  out  of  the  hive,  and  there 
was  no  frost  in  the  air  or  in  the  ground.      I  was 
walking  in  the  woods,    when   as  I   paused   in   the 
shade  of  a  hemlock-tree  I  heard  a  sound  proceed 
from  beneath  the  wet  leaves  on  the  ground  but  a 
few  feet  from  me  that  suggested  a  frog.      Following 
it   cautiously   up,    I   at   last   determined   upon    the 
exact  spot  from  whence  the  sound  issued;  lifting 
up  the  thick  layer  of  leaves,  there  sat  a  frog  —  the 
wood  frog,  one  of  the  first  to  appear  in  the  marshes 
in  spring,  and  which  I  have  elsewhere  called  the 
"clucking  frog"  —  in  a  little  excavation  in  the  sur- 
face of  the  leaf  mould.      As  it  sat  there  the  top  of 
its  back  was  level  with  the  surface  of  the  ground. 
This,  then,  was  its  hibernaculum ;  here  it  was  pre- 


A    SHARP   LOOKOUT  15 

pared  to  pass  the  winter,  with  only  a  coverlid  of 
wet  matted  leaves  between  it  and  zero  weather. 
Forthwith  I  set  up  as  a  prophet  of  warm  weather, 
and  among  other  things  predicted  a  failure  of  the 
ice  crop  on  the  river;  which,  indeed,  others,  who 
had  not  heard  frogs  croak  on  the  31st  of  December, 
had  also  begun  to  predict.  Surely,  I  thought,  this 
frog  knows  what  it  is  about;  here  is  the  wisdom  of 
nature;  it  would  have  gone  deeper  into  the  ground 
than  that  if  a  severe  winter  was  approaching;  so  I 
was  not  anxious  about  my  coal-bin,  nor  disturbed 
by  longings  for  Florida.  But  what  a  winter  fol- 
lowed, the  winter  of  1885,  when  the  Hudson  be- 
came coated  with  ice  nearly  two  feet  thick,  and 
when  March  was  as  cold  as  January !  I  thought  of 
my  frog  under  the  hemlock  and  wondered  how  it 
was  faring.  So  one  day  the  latter  part  of  March, 
when  the  snow  was  gone,  and  there  was  a  feeling 
of  spring  in  the  air,  I  turned  aside  in  my  walk  to 
investigate  it.  The  matted  leaves  were  still  frozen 
hard,  but  I  succeeded  in  lifting  them  up  and  expos- 
ing the  frog.  There  it  sat  as  fresh  and  unscathed 
as  in  the  fall.  The  ground  beneath  and  all  about 
it  was  still  frozen  like  a  rock,  but  apparently  it  had 
some  means  of  its  own  of  resisting  the  frost.  It 
winked  and  bowed  its  head  when  I  touched  it,  but 
did  not  seem  inclined  to  leave  its  retreat.  Some 
days  later,  after  the  frost  was  nearly  all  out  of  the 
ground,  I  passed  that  way,  and  found  my  frog  had 
come  out  of  its  seclusion  and  was  resting  amid  the 
dry  leaves.      There  was  not  much  jump  in  it  yet, 


16  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

but  its  color  was  growing  lighter.  A  few  more 
warm  days,  and  its  fellows,  and  doubtless  itself  too, 
were  croaking  and  gamboling  in  the  marshes. 

This  incident  convinced  me  of  two  things; 
namely,  that  frogs  know  no  more  about  the  coming 
weather  than  we  do,  and  that  they  do  not  retreat 
as  deep  into  the  ground  to  pass  the  winter  as  has 
been  supposed.  I  used  to  think  the  muskrats  could 
foretell  an  early  and  a  severe  winter,  and  have  so 
written.  But  I  am  now  convinced  they  cannot; 
they  know  as  little  about  it  as  I  do.  Sometimes 
on  an  early  and  severe  frost  they  seem  to  get 
alarmed  and  go  to  building  their  houses,  but  usually 
they  seem  to  build  early  or  late,  high  or  low,  just 
as  the  whim  takes  them. 

In  most  of  the  operations  of  nature  there  is  at 
least  one  unknown  quantity ;  to  find  the  exact  value 
of  this  unknown  factor  is  not  so  easy.  The  wool 
of  the  sheep,  the  fur  of  the  animals,  the  feathers  of 
the  fowls,  the  husks  of  the  maize,  why  are  they 
thicker  some  seasons  than  others;  what  is  the  value 
of  the  unknown  quantity  here?  Does  it  indicate 
a  severe  winter  approaching?  Only  observations 
extending  over  a  series  of  years  could  determine 
the  point.  How  much  patient  observation  it  takes 
to  settle  many  of  the  facts  in  the  lives  of  the  birds, 
animals,  and  insects!  Gilbert  White  was  all  his 
life  trying  to  determine  whether  or  not  swallows 
passed  the  winter  in  a  torpid  state  in  the  mud  at 
the  bottom  of  ponds  and  marshes,  and  he  died  igno- 
rant of  the  truth  that  they  do  not.      Do  honey-bees 


A   SHARP  LOOKOUT  17 

injure  the  grape  and  other  fruits  by  puncturing  the 
skin  for  the  juice  ?  The  most  patient  watching  by 
many  skilled  eyes  all  over  the  country  has  not  yet 
settled  the  point.  For  my  own  part,  I  am  con- 
vinced that  they  do  not.  The  honey-bee  is  not  the 
rough-and-ready  freebooter  that  the  wasp  and  bum- 
blebee are;  she  has  somewhat  of  feminine  timidity, 
and  leaves  the  first  rude  assaults  to  them.  I  knew 
the  honey-bee  was  very  fond  of  the  locust  blossoms, 
and  that  the  trees  hummed  like  a  hive  in  the  height 
of  their  flowering,  but  I  did  not  know  that  the 
bumblebee  was  ever  the  sapper  and  miner  that 
went  ahead  in  this  enterprise,  till  one  day  I  placed 
myself  amid  the  foliage  of  a  locust  and  saw  him 
savagely  bite  through  the  shank  of  the  flower  and 
extract  the  nectar,  followed  by  a  honey-bee  that  in 
every  instance  searched  for  this  opening,  and  probed 
long  and  carefully  for  the  leavings  of  her  burly 
purveyor.  The  bumblebee  rifles  the  dicentra  and 
the  columbine  of  their  treasures  in  the  same  man- 
ner, namely,  by  slitting  their  pockets  from  the  out- 
side, and  the  honey-bee  gleans  after  him,  taking 
the  small  change  he  leaves.  In  the  case  of  the 
locust,  however,  she  usually  obtains  the  honey  with- 
out the  aid  of  the  larger  bee. 

Speaking  of  the  honey-bee  reminds  me  that  the 
subtle  and  sleight-of-hand  manner  in  which  she  fills 
her  baskets  with  pollen  and  propolis  is  characteristic 
of  much  of  Nature's  doings.  See  the  bee  going 
from  flower  to  flower  with  the  golden  pellets  on 
her  thighs,   slowly  and   mysteriously  increasing   in 


18  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

size.      If  the  miller  were  to  take  the   toll   of  the 
grist  he  grinds  by  gathering  the  particles  of  flour 
from  his  coat  and  hat,  as  he  moved  rapidly  about, 
or  catching  them  in  his  pockets,  he  would  be  doing 
pretty  nearly  what  the  bee  does.      The  little  miller 
dusts   herself  with   the   pollen  of   the   flower,    and 
then,    while  on  the  wing,   brushes  it  off  with  the 
fine  brush  on  certain  of  her  feet,  and  by  some  jug- 
glery or  other  catches  it  in  her  pollen  basket.      One 
needs  to  look  long  and  intently  to  see  through  the 
trick.      Pliny  says  they  fill  their  baskets  with  their 
fore   feet,    and   that  they  fill  their  fore   feet   with 
their  trunks,  but  it  is  a  much  more  subtle  operation 
than  this.      I  have  seen  the  bees  come  to  a  meal 
barrel  in  early  spring,   and  to  a  pile  of  hardwood 
sawdust  before  there  was  yet  anything  in  nature  for 
them  to  work  upon,  and,  having  dusted  their  coats 
with  the  finer  particles  of  the  meal  or  the  sawdust, 
hover  on  the  wing  above  the  mass  till  the  little 
legerdemain   feat    is    performed.      Nature    fills    her 
baskets  by  the   same  sleight-of-hand,   and  the  ob- 
server must  be  on  the  alert  who  would  possess  her 
secret.      If   the  ancients  had  looked  a  little  closer 
and  sharper,  would  they  ever  have  believed  in  spon- 
taneous generation  in  the  superficial  way  in  which 
they  did;  that  maggots,   for  instance,   were  gener- 
ated spontaneously   in    putrid    flesh?     Could   they 
not  see  the  spawn  of  the  blow-flies  ?     Or,  if  Virgil 
had  been  a  real  observer  of  the  bees,  would  he  ever 
have  credited,   as  he   certainly  appears   to   do,   the 
fable  of  bees  originating  from  the  carcass  of  a  steer  1 


A   SHARP  LOOKOUT  19 

or  that  on  windy  days  they  carried  little  stones  for 
ballast?  or  that  two  hostile  swarms  fought  each 
other  in  the  air?  Indeed,  the  ignorance,  or  the 
false  science,  of  the  ancient  observers,  with  regard 
to  the  whole  subject  of  bees,  is  most  remarkable; 
not  false  science  merely  with  regard  to  their  more 
hidden  operations,  but  with  regard  to  that  which  is 
open  and  patent  to  all  who  have  eyes  in  their  heads, 
and  have  ever  had  to  do  with  them.  And  Pliny 
names  authors  who  had  devoted  their  whole  lives 
to  the  study  of  the  subject. 

But  the  ancients,  like  women  and  children,  were 
not  accurate  observers.  Just  at  the  critical  moment 
their  eyes  were  unsteady,  or  their  fancy,  or  their 
credulity,  or  their  impatience,  got  the  better  of 
them,  so  that  their  science  was  half  fact  and  half 
fable.  Thus,  for  instance,  because  the  young  cuckoo 
at  times  appeared  to  take  the  head  of  its  small  fos- 
ter mother  quite  into  its  mouth  while  receiving  its 
food,  they  believed  that  it  finally  devoured  her. 
Pliny,  who  embodied  the  science  of  his  times  in 
his  natural  history,  says  of  the  wasp  that  it  carries 
spiders  to  its  nest,  and  then  sits  upon  them  until  it 
hatches  its  young  from  them.  A  little  careful 
observation  would  have  shown  him  that  this  was 
only  a  half  truth;  that  the  whole  truth  was,  that 
the  spiders  were  entombed  with  the  egg  of  the  wasp 
to  serve  as  food  for  the  young  when  the  egg  shall 
have  hatched. 

What  curious  questions  Plutarch  discusses,  as, 
for  instance,  "What  is  the  reason  that  a  bucket  of 


20  SIGNS  AND   SEASONS 

water  drawn  out  of  a  well,  if  it   stands  all  night  in 
the  air  that  is  in  the  well,    is   more   cold   in  the 
morning  than  the  rest  of  the  water  ?  "     He  could 
probably  have  given  many  reasons  why  "a  watched 
pot  never  boils."     The  ancients,   the  same  author 
says,  held  that  the  bodies  6i  those  killed  by  light- 
ning never  putrefy ;  that  the  sight  of  a  ram  quiets 
an   enraged   elephant;   that   a  viper  will   lie  stock 
still  if  touched  by  a  beechen  leaf ;  that  a  wild  bull 
grows  tame  if  bound  with  the  twigs  of  a  fig-tree; 
that  a  hen  purifies  herself  with  straw  after  she  has 
laid  an  egg;  that  the  deer  buries  his  cast-off  horns; 
that    a  goat   stops   the   whole   herd   by   holding    a 
branch  of  the  sea-holly  in  his  mouth,  etc.      They 
sought  to  account  for  such  things  without  stopping 
to  ask,  Are  they  true?     Nature  was  too  novel,  or 
else  too  fearful,  to  them  to  be  deliberately  pursued 
and  hunted  down.      Their  youthful  joy  in  her,  or 
their  dread  and  awe  in  her  presence,  may  be  better 
than  our  scientific  satisfaction,   or  cool  wonder,  or 
our  vague,  mysterious  sense  of  "something  far  more 
deeply    interfused;"    yet    we    cannot    change  with 
them  if  we  would,  and  I,  for  one,  would  not  if  I 
could.     Science  does  not  mar  nature.     The  railroad, 
Thoreau  found,   after  all,   to  be  about  the  wildest 
road  he  knew  of,  and  the  telegraph  wires  the  best 
seolian  harp  out  of  doors.      Study  of  nature  deepens 
the  mystery  and  the  charm  because  it  removes  the 
horizon  farther  off.      We  cease  to  fear,  perhaps,  but 
how  can  one  cease  to  marvel  and  to  love  ? 

The  fields  and  woods  and  waters  about  one  are 


A  eHARP  LOOKOUT  21 

a  book  from  which  he  may  draw  exhaustless  enter- 
tainment, if  he  will.  One  must  not  only  learn 
the  writing,  he  must  translate  the  language,  the 
signs,  and  the  hieroglyphics.  It  is  a  very  quaint 
and  elliptical  writing,  and  much  must  be  supplied 
by  the  wit  of  the  translator.  At  any  rate,  the  les- 
son is  to  be  well  conned.  Gilbert  White  said  that 
that  locality  would  be  found  the  richest  in  zoologi- 
cal or  botanical  specimens  which  was  most  thor- 
oughly examined.  For  more  than  forty  years  he 
studied  the  ornithology  of  his  district  without  ex- 
hausting the  subject.  I  thought  I  knew  my  own 
tramping  ground  pretty  well,  but  one  April  day, 
when  I  looked  a  little  closer  than  usual  into  a  small 
semi-stagnant  lakelet  where  I  had  peered  a  hundred 
times  before,  I  suddenly  discovered  scores  of  little 
creatures  that  were  as  new  to  me  as  so  many  nymphs 
would  have  been.  They  were  partly  fish-shaped, 
from  an  inch  to  an  inch  and  a  half  long,  semi-trans- 
parent, with  a  dark  brownish  line  visible  the  entire 
length  of  them  (apparently  the  thread  upon  which 
the  life  of  the  animal  hung,  and  by  which  its  all 
but  impalpable  frame  was  held  together),  and  sus- 
pending themselves  in  the  water,  or  impelling  them- 
selves swiftly  forward  by  means  of  a  double  row  of 
fine,  waving,  hair-like  appendages,  that  arose  from 
what  appeared  to  be  the  back,  —  a  kind  of  undula- 
ting, pappus-like  wings.  What  was  it?  I  did  not 
know.  None  of  my  friends  or  scientific  acquaint- 
ances knew.  I  wrote  to  a  learned  man,  an  author- 
ity upon  fish,   describing  the  creature  as  well  as  I 


22  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

could.  He  replied  that  it  was  only  a  familiar  spe- 
cies of  phyllopodous  crustacean,  known  as  Eu- 
branchipus  vernalis. 

I  remember  that  our  guide  in  the  Maine  woods, 
seeing  I  had  names  of  my  own  for  some  of  the 
plants,  would  often  ask  me  the  name  of  this  and 
that  flower  for  which  he  had  no  word;  and  that 
when  I  could  recall  the  full  Latin  term,  it  seemed 
overwhelmingly  convincing  and  satisfying  to  him. 
It  was  evidently  a  relief  to  know  that  these  obscure 
plants  of  his  native  heath  had  been  found  worthy 
of  a  learned  name,  and  that  the  Maine  woods  were 
not  so  vmcivil  and  outlandish  as  they  might  at  first 
seem:  it  was  a  comfort  to  him  to  know  that  he  did 
not  live  beyond  the  reach  of  botany.  In  like  man- 
ner I  found  satisfaction  in  knowing  that  my  novel 
fish  had  been  recognized  and  worthily  named;  the 
title  conferred  a  new  dignity  at  once ;  but  when  the 
learned  man  added  that  it  was  familiarly  called  the 
"fairy  shrimp,"  I  felt  a  deeper  pleasure.  Fairy- 
like  it  certainly  was,  in  its  aerial,  unsubstantial 
look,  and  in  its  delicate,  down-like  means  of  loco- 
motion; but  the  large  head,  with  its  curious  folds, 
and  its  eyes  standing  out  in  relief,  as  if  on  the 
heads  of  two  pins,  were  gnome-like.  Probably  the 
fairy  wore  a  mask,  and  wanted  to  appear  terrible  to 
human  eyes.  Then  the  creatures  had  sprung  out 
of  the  earth  as  by  magic.  I  found  some  in  a  fur- 
row in  a  plowed  field  that  had  encroached  upon  a 
swamp.  In  the  fall  the  plow  had  been  there,  and 
had  turned  up  only  the  moist  earth;   now  a  littlo 


A   SHARP  LOOKOUT  23 

M^ater  was  standing  there,  from  which  the  April 
sunbeams  had  invoked  these  airy,  fairy  creatures. 
They  belong  to  the  crustaceans,  but  apparently  no 
creature  has  so  thin  or  impalpable  a  crust;  you  can 
almost  see  through  them;  certainly  you  can  see 
what  they  have  had  for  dinner,  if  they  have  eaten 
substantial  food. 

All  we  know  about  the  private  and  essential 
natural  history  of  the  bees,  the  birds,  the  fishes, 
the  animals,  the  plants,  is  the  result  of  close,  pa- 
tient, quick-witted  observation.  Yet  Nature  will 
often  elude  one  for  all  his  pains  and  alertness. 
Thoreau,  as  revealed  in  his  journal,  was  for  years 
trying  to  settle  in  his  own  mind  what  was  the  first 
thing  that  stirred  in  spring,  after  the  severe  New 
England  winter,  —  in  what  was  the  first  sign  or 
pulse  of  returning  life  manifest ;  and  he  never  seems 
to  have  been  quite  sure.  He  could  not  get  his  salt 
on  the  tail  of  this  bird.  He  dug  into  the  swamps, 
he  peered  into  the  water,  he  felt  with  benumbed 
hands  for  the  radical  leaves  of  the  plants  under  the 
snow;  he  inspected  the  buds  on  the  willows,  the 
catkins  on  the  alders;  he  went  out  before  daylight 
of  a  March  morning  and  remained  out  after  dark ; 
he  watched  the  lichens  and  mosses  on  the  rocks; 
he  listened  for  the  birds;  he  was  on  the  alert  for 
the  first  frog  ("Can  you  be  absolutely  sure,"  he 
says,  "that  you  have  heard  the  first  frog  that 
croaked  in  the  township  ?  ") ;  he  stuck  a  pin  here 
and  he  stuck  a  pin  there,  and  there,  and  still  he 
could  not  satisfy  himself.      Nor  can  any  one.      Life 


24  SIGNS  AND   SEASONS 

appears  to  start  in  several  things   simultaneously. 
Of   a  warm    thawy  day  in    February  the    snow  is 
suddenly  covered  with  myriads  of  snow  fleas  look- 
ing like  black,  new  powder  just  spilled  there.      Or 
you  may  see  a  winged  insect  in  the  air.      On  the 
selfsame  day  the  grass  in  the  spring  run  and  the 
catkins  on  the  alders  will  have  started  a  little;  and 
if  you  look  sharply,   while  passing  along  some  shel- 
tered nook  or  grassy  slope  where  the  sunshine  lies 
warm  on  the  bare  ground,  you  will  probably  see  a 
grasshopper  or  two.      The  grass  hatches  out  under 
the  snow,    and  why   should   not   the    grasshopper? 
At  any  rate,  a  few  such  hardy  specimens  may  be 
found    in    the    latter    part    of    our    milder   winters 
wherever  the  sun  has  uncovered  a  sheltered  bit  of 
grass  for  a  few  days,  even  after  a  night  of  ten  or 
twelve  degrees  of  frost.      Take  them  in  the  shade, 
and  let  them  freeze  stiff  as  pokers,  and  when  thawed 
out  again  they  will  hop  briskly.    And  yet,  if  a  poet 
were  to  put  grasshoppers  in  his  winter  poem,   we 
should  require  pretty  full  specifications  of  him,  or 
else  fur  to  clothe  them  with.      Nature  will  not  be 
cornered,  yet  she  does  many  things  in  a  corner  and 
surreptitiously.      She  is  all  things  to  all  men;  she 
has  whole  truths,  half  truths,  and  quarter  truths,  if 
not   still   smaller   fractions.      The   careful    observer 
finds  this  out  sooner  or  later.      Old  fox-hunters  will 
tell  you,  on  the  evidence  of  their  own  eyes,   that 
there    is   a   black   fox    and  a   silver-gray  fox,    two 
species,  but  there  are  not;  the  black  fox  is  black 
when  coming  toward  you  or  running  from  you,  and 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT  25 

silver  gray  at  point-blank  view,  when  the  eye  pene- 
trates the  fur;  each  separate  hair  is  gray  the  first 
half  and  black  the  last.  This  is  a  sample  of  nature's 
half  truths. 

Which  are  our  sweet-scented  wild  flowers?  Put 
your  nose  to  every  flower  you  pluck,  and  you  will 
be  surprised  how  your  list  will  swell  the  more  you 
smell.  I  plucked  some  wild  blue  violets  one  day, 
the  ovata  variety  of  the  sagittata,  that  had  a  faint 
perfume  of  sweet  clover,  but  I  never  could  find 
another  that  had  any  odor.  A  pupil  disputed  with 
his  teacher  about  the  hepatica,  claiming  in  opposi- 
tion that  it  was  sweet-scented.  Some  hepaticas  are 
sweet-scented  and  some  are  not,  and  the  perfume  is 
stronger  some  seasons  than  others.  After  the  un- 
usually severe  winter  of  1880-81,  the  variety  of 
hepatica  called  the  sharp-lobed  was  markedly  sweet 
in  nearly  every  one  of  the  hundreds  of  specimens  I 
examined.  A  handful  of  them  exhaled  a  most  deli- 
cious perfume.  The  white  ones  that  season  were 
largely  in  the  ascendant;  and  probably  the  white 
specimens  of  both  varieties,  one  season  with  an- 
other, will  oftenest  prove  sweet-scented.  Darwin 
says  a  considerably  larger  proportion  of  white  flow- 
ers are  sweet-scented  than  of  any  other  color.  The 
only  sweet  violets  I  can  depend  upon  are  white, 
Viola  hlanda  and  Viola  Canadensis,  and  white 
largely  predominates  among  our  other  odorous  wild 
flowers.  All  the  fruit-trees  have  white  or  j)inkish 
blossoms.  I  recall  no  native  blue  flower  of  New 
York  or  New  England  that  is  fragrant  except  in  the 


26  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

rare  case  of  the  arrow-leaved  violet,  above  referred 
to.  The  earliest  yellow  flowers,  like  the  dandelion 
and  yellow  violets,  are  not  fragrant.  Later  in  the 
season  yellow  is  frequently  accompanied  with  fra- 
grance, as  in  the  evening  primrose,  the  yellow  lady's- 
slipper,  horned  bladderwort,  and  others. 

My  readers  probably  remember  that  on  a  former 
occasion  I  have  mildly  taken  the  poet  Bryant  to 
task  for  leading  his  readers  to  infer  that  the  early 
yellow  violet  was  sweet-scented.  In  view  of  the 
capriciousness  of  the  perfume  of  certain  of  our  wild 
flowers,  I  have  during  the  past  few  years  tried 
industriously  to  convict  myself  of  error  in  respect 
to  this  flower.  The  round-leaved  yellow  violet  was 
one  of  the  earliest  and  most  abundant  wild  flowers 
in  the  woods  where  my  youth  was  passed,  and 
whither  I  still  make  annual  pilgrimages.  I  have 
pursued  it  on  mountains  and  in  lowlands,  in 
''beechen  woods"  and  amid  the  hemlocks;  and 
while,  with  respect  to  its  earliness,  it  overtakes  the 
hepatica  in  the  latter  part  of  April,  as  do  also  the 
dog's-tooth  violet  and  the  claytonia,  yet  the  flrst 
hepaticas,  where  the  two  plants  grow  side  by  side, 
bloom  about  a  week  before  the  first  violet.  And  I 
have  yet  to  find  one  that  has  an  odor  that  could  be 
called  a  perfume,  A  handful  of  them,  indeed,  has 
a  faint,  bitterish  smell,  not  unlike  that  of  the  dan- 
delion in  quality ;  but  if  every  flower  that  has  a 
smell  is  sweet-scented,  then  every  bird  that  makes 
a  noise  is  a  songster. 

On   the    occasion  above    referred  to,  I  also  dis- 


A   SHARP  LOOKOUT  27 

sented  from  Lowell's  statement,  in  "Al  Fresco," 
that  in  early  summer  the  dandelion  blooms,  in  gen- 
eral, with  the  buttercup  and  the  clover.  I  am 
aware  that  such  criticism  of  the  poets  is  small  game, 
and  not  worth  the  powder.  General  truth,  and  not 
specific  fact,  is  what  we  are  to  expect  of  the  poets. 
Bryant's  "  Yellow  Violet "  poem  is  tender  and 
appropriate,  and  such  as  only  a  real  lover  and  ob- 
server of  nature  could  feel  or  express;  and  Low- 
ell's "Al  Fresco"  is  full  of  the  luxurious  feeling 
of  early  summer,  and  this  is,  of  course,  the  main 
thing;  a  good  reader  cares  for  little  else;  I  care  for 
little  else  myself.  But  when  you  take  your  coin  to 
the  assay  office  it  must  be  weighed  and  tested,  and 
in  the  comments  referred  to  I  (unwisely  perhaps) 
sought  to  smelt  this  gold  of  the  poets  in  the  natu- 
ralist's pot,  to  see  what  alloy  of  error  I  could 
detect  in  it.  Were  the  poems  true  to  their  last 
word?  They  were  not,  and  much  subsequent  in- 
vestigation has  only  confirmed  my  first  analysis. 
The  general  truth  is  on  my  side,  and  the  specific 
fact,  if  such  exists  in  this  case,  on  the  side  of  the 
poets.  It  is  possible  that  there  may  be  a  fragrant 
yellow  violet,  as  an  exceptional  occurrence,  like 
that  of  the  sweet-scented,  arrow-leaved  species  above 
referred  to,  and  that  in  some  locality  it  may  have 
bloomed  before  the  hepatica;  also  that  Lowell  may 
have  seen  a  belated  dandelion  or  two  in  June,  amid 
the  clover  and  the  buttercups;  but,  if  so,  they  were 
the  exception,  and  not  the  rule,  — the  specific  or 
accidental  fact,  and  not  the  general  truth. 


28  SIGNS  AND   SEASONS 

Dogmatism  about  nature,  or  about  anything  else, 
very  often  turns  out  to  be  an  ungrateful  cur  that 
bites  the  hand  that  reared  it.  I  speak  from  expe- 
rience. I  was  once  quite  certain  that  the  honey- 
bee did  not  work  upon  the  blossoms  of  the  trailing 
arbutus,  but  while  walking  in  the  woods  one  April 
day  I  came  upon  a  spot  of  arbutus  swarming  with 
honey-bees.  They  were  so  eager  for  it  that  they 
crawled  under  the  leaves  and  the  moss  to  get  at  the 
blossoms,  and  refused  on  the  instant  the  hive-honey 
which  I  happened  to  have  with  me,  and  which  I 
offered  them,  I  had  had  this  flower  under  ob- 
servation more  than  twenty  years,  and  had  never 
before  seen  it  visited  by  honey-bees.  <xhe  same 
season  I  saw  them  for  the  first  time  working  upon 
the  flower  of  bloodroot  and  of  adder's- tongue. 
Hence  I  would  not  undertake  to  say  again  what 
flowers  bees  do  not  work  upon.  Virgil  implies 
that  they  work  upon  the  violet,  and  for  aught  I 
know  they  may.  I  have  seen  them  very  busy  on 
the  blossoms  of  the  white  oak,  though  this  is  not 
considered  a  honey  or  pollen  yielding  tree.  From 
the  smooth  sumac  they  reap  a  harvest  in  midsum- 
mer, and  in  March  they  get  a  good  grist  of  pollen 
from  the  skunk-cabbage. 

I  presume,  however,  it  would  be  safe  to  say  that 
there  is  a  species  of  smilax  with  an  unsavory  name 
that  the  bee  does  not  visit,  herhacea.  The  produc- 
tion of  this  plant  is  a  curious  freak  of  nature.  I 
find  it  growing  along  the  fences  where  one  would 
look  for  wild  roses  or  the  sweetbrier;    its  recurv- 


A   SHARP   LOOKOUT  29 

ing  or  climbing  stem,  its  glossy,  deep-green,  heart- 
shaped  leaves,  its  clustering  umbels  of  small  green- 
ish yellow  flowers,  making  it  very  pleasing  to  the 
eye ;  but  to  examine  it  closely  one  must  positively 
hold  his  nose.  It  would  be  too  cruel  a  joke  to 
offer  it  to  any  person  not  acquainted  with  it  to 
smell.  It  is  like  the  vent  of  a  charnel-house.  It 
is  first  cousin  to  the  trilliums,  among  the  prettiest 
of  our  native  wild  flowers,  and  the  same  bad  blood 
crops  out  in  the  purple  trillium  or  birthroot. 

Nature  will  include  the  disagreeable  and  repul- 
sive also.  I  have  seen  the  phallic  fungus  growing 
in  June  under  a  rosebush.  There  was  the  rose, 
and  beneath  it,  springing  from  the  same  mould,  was 
this  diabolical  ofi'ering  to  Priapus.  With  the  per- 
fume of  the  roses  into  the  open  window  came  the 
stench  of  this  hideous  parody,  as  if  in  mockery.  I 
removed  it,  and  another  appeared  in  the  same  place 
shortly  afterward.  The  earthman  was  rampant  and 
insulting.  Pan  is  not  dead  yet.  At  least  he  still 
makes  a  ghastly  sign  here  and  there  in  nature. 

The  good  observer  of  nature  exists  in  fragments, 
a  trait  here  and  a  trait  there.  Each  person  sees 
what  it  concerns  him  to  see.  The  fox-hunter  knows 
pretty  well  the  ways  and  habits  of  the  fox,  but  on 
any  other  subject  he  is  apt  to  mislead  you.  He 
comes  to  see  only  fox  traits  in  whatever  he  looks 
upon.  The  bee-hunter  will  follow  the  bee,  but 
lose  the  bird.  The  farmer  notes  what  afl'ects  his 
crops  and  his  earnings,  and  little  else.  Common 
people,  St.   Pierre  says,  observe  without  reasoning. 


30  SIGNS  AND   SEASONS 

and  the  learned  reason  without  observing.      If  one 
could  apply  to  the  observation  of  nature  the  sense 
and  skill   of   the   South  American  rastreador^    or 
trailer,    how    much  he   would   track   home!     This 
man's  eye,  according  to  the  accounts  of  travelers, 
is  keener  than  a  hound's  scent.      A  fugitive  can  no 
more  elude  him  than  he  can  elude  fate.      His  per- 
ceptions are  said  to  be  so  keen  that  the  displace- 
ment of  a  leaf  or  pebble,  or  the  bending  down  of 
a  spear  of  grass,  or  the  removal  of  a  little  dust  from 
the  fence  are  enough  to  give  him  the  clew.      He 
sees  the  half-obliterated  footprints  of  a  thief  in  the 
sand,    and  carries  the  impression  in  his  eye  till  a 
year   afterward,    when   he   again   detects   the   same 
footprint  in  the  suburbs  of  a  city,  and  the  culprit 
is  tracked  home  and  caught.      I  knew  a  man  blind 
from  his  youth  who  not  only  went  about  his  own 
neighborhood  without  a  guide,   turning   up   to  his 
neighbor's  gate  or  door  as  unerringly  as  if  he  had 
the  best  of  eyes,  but  who  would  go  many  miles  on 
an  errand  to  a  new  part  of  the  country.     He  seemed 
to  carry  a  map  of  the  township  in  the  bottom  of 
his  feet,  a  most  minute  and  accurate  survey.      He 
never  took  the  wrong  road  and  he  knew  the  right 
house  when  he  had  reached  it.      He  was  a  miller 
and  fuller,  and  ran  his  mill  at  night  while  his  sons 
ran  it  by  day.      He  never  made  a  mistake  with  his 
customers'  bags  or  wool,  knowing  each  man's  by  the 
sense  of  touch.     He  frightened  a  colored  man  whom 
he  detected  stealing,  as  if  he  had  seen  out  of  the 
back  of  his  head.      Such  facts  show  one  how  deli- 


A   SHARP  "LOOKOUT  31 

cate  and  sensitive  a  man's  relation  to  outward 
nature  through  his  bodily  senses  may  become. 
Heighten  it  a  little  more,  and  he  could  forecast  the 
weather  and  the  seasons,  and  detect  hidden  springs 
and  minerals.  A  good  observer  has  something  of 
this  delicacy  and  quickness  of  perception.  All  the 
great  poets  and  naturalists  have  it.  Agassiz  traces 
the  glaciers  like  a  rastreador;  and  Darwin  misses 
no  step  that  the  slow  but  tireless  gods  of  physical 
change  have  taken,  no  matter  how  they  cross  or 
retrace  their  course.  In  the  obscure  fish- worm  he 
sees  an  agent  that  has  kneaded  and  leavened  the  soil 
like  giant  hands. 

One  secret  of  success  in  observing  nature  is  ca- 
pacity to  take  a  hint;  a  hair  may  show  where  a 
lion  is  hid.  One  must  put  this  and  that  together, 
and  value  bits  and  shreds.  Much  alloy  exists  with 
the  truth.  The  gold  of  nature  does  not  look  like 
gold  at  the  first  glance.  It  must  be  smelted  and 
refined  in  the  mind  of  the  observer.  And  one 
must  crush  mountains  of  quartz  and  wash  hills  of 
sand  to  get  it.  To  know  the  indications  is  the 
main  matter.  People  who  do  not  know  the  secret 
are  eager  to  take  a  walk  with  the  observer  to  find 
where  the  mine  is  that  contains  such  nuggets,  little 
knowing  that  his  ore-bed  is  but  a  gravel-heap  to 
them.  How  insignificant  appear  most  of  the  facts 
which  one  sees  in  his  walks,  in  the  life  of  the 
birds,  the  flowers,  the  animals,  or  in  the  phases  of 
the  landscape,  or  the  look  of  the  sky !  —  insignifi- 
cant until  they  are   put  through   some  mental  or 


32  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

emotional  process  and  their  true  value  appears. 
The  diamond  looks  like  a  pebble  until  it  is  cut. 
One  goes  to  Nature  only  for  hints  and  half  truths. 
Her  facts  are  crude  until  you  have  absorbed  them 
or  translated  them.  Then  the  ideal  steals  in  and 
lends  a  charm  in  spite  of  one.  It  is  not  so  much 
what  we  see  as  what  the  thing  seen  suggests.  We 
all  see  about  the  same ;  to  one  it  means  much,  to 
another  little.  A  fact  that  has  passed  through  the 
mind  of  man,  like  lime  or  iron  that  has  passed 
through  his  blood,  has  some  quality  or  property 
superadded  or  brought  out  that  it  did  not  possess 
before.  You  may  go  to  the  fields  and  the  woods, 
and  gather  fruit  that  is  ripe  for  the  palate  without 
any  aid  of  yours,  but  you  cannot  do  this  in  science 
or  in  art.  Here  truth  must  be  disentangled  and 
interpreted,  —  must  be  made  in  the  image  of  man. 
Hence  all  good  observation  is  more  or  less  a  refining 
and  transmuting  process,  and  the  secret  is  to  know 
the  crude  material  when  you  see  it.  I  think  of 
Wordsworth's  lines:  — 

"  The  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create,  and  what  perceive;  " 

which  is  as  true  in  the  case  of  the  naturalist  as  of 
the  poet;  both  "half  create  "  the  world  they  describe. 
Darwin  does  something  to  his  facts  as  well  as  Ten- 
nyson to  his.  Before  a  fact  can  become  poetry,  it 
must  pass  through  the  heart  or  the  imagination  of 
the  poet ;  before  it  can  become  science,  it  must  pass 
through  the  understanding  of  the  scientist.  Or  one 
may  say,  it  is  with  the  thoughts  and  half  thoughts 


A   SHARP   LOOKOUT  33 

that  the  walker  gathers  in  the  woods  and  fields, 
as  with  the  common  weeds  and  coarser  wild  flow- 
ers which  he  plucks  for  a  bouquet,  —  wild  carrot, 
purple  aster,  moth  mullein,  sedge,  grass,  etc. :  they 
look  common  and  uninteresting  enough  there  in  the 
fields,  but  the  moment  he  separates  them  from  the 
tangled  mass,  and  brings  them  indoors,  and  places 
them  in  a  vase,  say  of  some  choice  glass,  amid 
artificial  things,  —  behold,  how  beautiful !  They 
have  an  added  charm  and  significance  at  once;  they 
are  defined  and  identified,  and  what  was  common 
and  familiar  becomes  unexpectedly  attractive.  The 
writer's  style,  the  quality  of  mind  he  brings,  is  the 
vase  in  which  his  commonplace  impressions  and 
incidents  are  made  to  appear  so  beautiful  and  sig- 
nificant. 

Man  can  have  but  one  interest  in  nature,  namely, 
to  see  himself  reflected  or  interpreted  there,  and  we 
quickly  neglect  both  poet  and  philosopher  who  fail 
to  satisfy,  in  some  measure,  this  feeling. 


n 

A  SPRAY   OF  PINE 

nrnrOW  different  the  expression  of  the  pine,  in 
-^ — *-  fact  of  all  the  coniferse,  from  that  of  the 
deciduous  trees!  Not  different  merely  by  reason 
of  color  and  foliage,  but  by  reason  of  form.  The 
deciduous  trees  have  greater  diversity  of  shapes; 
they  tend  to  branch  endlessly ;  they  divide  and  sub- 
divide until  the  original  trunk  is  lost  in  a  maze  of 
limbs.  Not  so  the  pine  and  its  congeners.  Here 
the  main  thing  is  the  central  shaft;  there  is  one 
dominant  shoot  which  leads  all  the  rest,  and  which 
points  the  tree  upward;  the  original  type  is  never 
departed  from:  the  branches  shoot  out  at  nearly 
right  angles  to  the  trunk,  and  occur  in  regular 
whorls ;  the  main  stem  is  never  divided  unless  some 
accident  nips  the  leading  shoot,  when  two  secondary 
branches  will  often  rise  up  and  lead  the  tree  for- 
ward. The  pine  has  no  power  to  develop  new 
buds,  new  shoots,  like  the  deciduous  trees;  no 
power  of  spontaneous  variation  to  meet  new  exi- 
gencies, new  requirements.  It  is,  as  it  were,  cast 
in  a  mould.  Its  buds,  its  branches  occur  in  regu- 
lar series  and  after  a  regular  pattern.  Interrupt 
this  series,  try   to   vary   this  pattern,  and  the  tree 


36  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

is  powerless  to  adapt  itself  to  any  other.  Victor 
Hugo,  in  his  old  age,  compared  himself  to  a  tree 
that  had  been  many  times  cut  down,  but  which 
always  sprouted  again.  But  the  pines  do  not  sprout 
again.  The  spontaneous  development  of  a  new  bud 
or  a  new  shoot  rarely  or  never  occurs.  The  hem- 
lock seems  to  be  under  the  same  law.  I  have  cut 
away  all  the  branches,  and  rubbed  away  all  the 
buds,  of  a  young  sapling  of  this  species,  and  found 
the  tree,  a  year  and  a  half  later,  full  of  life,  but 
with  no  leaf  or  bud  upon  it.  It  could  not  break 
the  spell.  One  bud  would  have  released  it  and  set 
its  currents  going  again,  but  it  was  powerless  to  de- 
velop it.  Remove  the  bud,  or  the  new  growth 
from  the  end  of  the  central  shaft  of  the  branch 
of  a  pine,  and  in  a  year  or  two  the  branch  will 
die  back  to  the  next  joint ;  remove  the  whorl  of 
branches  here  and  it  will  die  back  to  the  next 
whorl,  and  so  on. 

When  you  cut  the  top  of  a  pine  or  a  spruce, 
removing  the  central  and  leading  shaft,  the  tree 
does  not  develop  and  send  forth  a  new  one  to  take 
the  place  of  the  old,  but  a  branch  from  the  next  in 
rank,  that  is,  from  the  next  whorl  of  limbs,  is  pro- 
moted to  take  the  lead.  It  is  curious  to  witness 
this  limb  rise  up  and  get  into  position.  One  season 
I  cut  off  the  tops  of  some  young  hemlocks  that 
were  about  ten  feet  high,  that  I  had  balled  in  the 
winter  and  had  moved  into  position  for  a  hedge. 
The  next  series  of  branches  consisted  of  three  that 
shot  out  nearly  horizontally.      As  time  passed,  one 


A   SPRAY   OF  PINE  37 

of   these   branches,    apparently   the   most   vigorous, 
began  to  lift  itself  up  very  slowly  toward  the  place 
occupied   by   the   lost   leader.      The   third    year    it 
stood  at  an  angle  of  about  forty-five  degrees;  the 
fourth  year  it  had  gained  about  half  the  remaining 
distance,    when   the    clipping    shears    again    cut    it 
down.      In  five  years  it  would  probably  have  as- 
sumed an  upright  position.      A  white  pine  of  about 
the  same  height  lost  its  central  shaft  by  a  grub  that 
developed  from  the  egg  of  an  insect,  and  I  cut  it 
away.      It  rose  from  a  whorl  of  four  branches,  and 
it  now  devolved  upon  one  of  these  to  take  the  lead. 
Two  of  them,  on  opposite  sides,  were  more  vigorous 
than  the  other  two,  and  the  struggle  now  is  as  to 
which  of  these  two  shall  gain  the  mastery.      Both 
are  rising  up  and  turning  toward  the  vacant  chief- 
tainship, and,  unless  something  interferes,  the  tree 
will  probably  become  forked  and  led  upward  by  two 
equal  branches.      I  shall  probably  humble  the  pride 
of  one  of  the  rivals  by  nipping  its  central  shoot. 
One  of  my  neighbors  has  cut  off  a  yellow  pine  about 
six  inches  in  diameter,  so  as  to  leave  only  one  circle 
of  limbs  seven  or  eight  feet  from  the  ground.      It 
is  now  the  third  year  of  the  tree's  decapitation,  and 
one  of  this  circle  of  horizontal  limbs  has  risen  up 
several  feet,   like  a  sleeper  rising  from  his  couch, 
and   seems   to   be    looking    around    inquiringly,    as 
much  as  to  say:   "Come,  brothers,  wake  up!     Some 
one  must  take  the  lead  here ;  shall  it  be  I  ?  " 

In  one  of  my  Norway  spruces  I  have  witnessed 
the  humbling  or  reducing  to  the  ranks  of  a  would-be 


38  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

leading  central  shoot.  For  a  couple  of  years  the 
vigorous  young  tree  was  led  upward  by  two  rival 
branches;  they  appeared  almost  evenly  matched; 
but  on  the  third  year  one  of  them  clearly  took  the 
lead,  and  at  the  end  of  the  season  was  a  foot  or 
more  in  advance  of  the  other.  The  next  year  the 
distance  between  them  became  still  greater,  and  the 
defeated  leader  appeared  to  give  up  the  contest,  so 
that  a  season  or  two  afterward  it  began  to  lose  its 
upright  attitude  and  to  fall  more  and  more  toward 
a  horizontal  position;  it  was  willing  to  go  back  into 
the  ranks  of  the  lateral  branches.  Its  humiliation 
was  so  great  that  it  even  for  a  time  dropped  below 
them;  but  toward  midsummer  it  lifted  up  its  head 
a  little,  and  was  soon  fairly  in  the  position  of  a  side 
branch,  simulating  defeat  and  willing  subordination 
as  completely  as  if  it  had  been  a  conscious,  sentient 
being. 

The  evergreens  can  keep  a  secret  the  year  round, 
some  one  has  said.  How  well  they  keep  the  secret 
of  the  shedding  of  their  leaves !  so  well  that  in  the 
case  of  the  spruces  we  hardly  know  when  it  does 
occur.  In  fact,  the  spruces  do  not  properly  shed 
their  leaves  at  all,  but  simply  outgrow  them,  after 
carrying  them  an  indefinite  time.  Some  of  the  spe- 
cies carry  their  leaves  five  or  six  years.  The  hem- 
lock drops  its  leaves  very  irregularly:  the  winds 
and  the  storms  whip  them  off;  in  winter  the  snow 
beneath  them  is  often  covered  with  them. 

But  the  pine  sheds  its  leaves  periodically,  though 
always  as  it  were  stealthily  and  under  cover  of  the 


A  SPRAY  OF  PINE  39 

newer  foliage.  The  white  pine  usually  sheds  its 
leaves  in  midsummer,  though  I  have  known  all  the 
pines  to  delay  till  October.  It  is  on  with  the  new 
love  before  it  is  off  with  the  old.  From  May  till 
near  autumn  it  carries  two  crops  of  leaves,  last 
year's  and  the  present  year's.      Emerson's  inquiry, 

"  How  the  sacred  pine-tree  adds 
To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads," 

is  framed  in  strict  accordance  with  the  facts.  It  is 
to  her  old  leaves  that  she  adds  the  new.  Only  the 
new  growth,  the  outermost  leaves,  are  carried  over 
till  the  next  season,  thus  keeping  the  tree  always 
clothed  and  green.  As  its  moulting  season  ap- 
proaches, these  old  leaves,  all  the  rear  ranks  on  the 
limbs,  begin  to  turn  yellow,  and  a  careless  observer 
might  think  the  tree  was  struck  with  death,  but  it 
is  not.  The  decay  stops  just  where  the  growth  of 
the  previous  spring  began,  and  presently  the  tree 
stands  green  and  vigorous,  with  a  newly-laid  carpet 
of  fallen  leaves  beneath  it. 

I  wonder  why  it  is  that  the  pine  has  an  ancient 
look,  a  suggestion  in  some  way  of  antiquity?  Is 
it  because  we  know  it  to  be  the  oldest  tree  %  or  is 
it  not  rather  that  its  repose,  its  silence,  its  un- 
changeableness,  suggest  the  past,  and  cause  it  to 
stand  out  in  sharp  contrast  upon  the  background 
of  the  flitting,  fugitive  present  ?  It  has  such  a  look 
of  permanence !  When  growing  from  the  rocks,  it 
seems  expressive  of  the  same  geologic  antiquity  as 
they.  It  has  the  simplicity  of  primitive  things; 
the  deciduous  trees  seem  more  complex,  more  het- 


40  SIGNS  AND   SEASONS 

erogeneoiis;  they  have  greater  versatility,  more  re- 
sources. The  pine  has  but  one  idea,  and  that  is  to 
mount  heavenward  by  regular  steps,  —  tree  of  fate, 
tree  of  dark  shadows  and  of  mystery. 

The  pine  is  the  tree  of  silence.  Who  was  the 
Goddess  of  Silence  ?  Look  for  her  altars  amid  the 
pines,  —  silence  above,  silence  below.  Pass  from 
deciduous  woods  into  pine  woods  of  a  windy  day, 
and  you  think  the  day  has  suddenly  become  calm. 
Then  how  silent  to  the  foot!  One  walks  over  a 
carpet  of  pine  needles  almost  as  noiselessly  as  over 
the  carpets  of  our  dwellings.  Do  these  halls  lead 
to  the  chambers  of  the  great,  that  all  noise  should 
be  banished  from  them?  Let  the  designers  come 
here  and  get  the  true  pattern  for  a  carpet,  —  a  soft 
yellowish  brown  with  only  a  red  leaf,  or  a  bit  of 
gray  moss,  or  a  dusky  lichen  scattered  here  and 
there;  a  background  that  does  not  weary  or  bewil- 
der the  eye,  or  insult  the  ground-loving  foot. 

How  friendly  the  pine-tree  is  to  man,  —  so  do- 
cile and  available  as  timber,  and  so  warm  and  pro- 
tective as  shelter !  Its  balsam  is  salve  to  his  wounds, 
its  fragrance  is  long  life  to  his  nostrils;  an  abiding, 
perennial  tree,  tempering  the  climate,  cool  as  mur- 
muring Avaters  in  summer  and  like  a  wrapping  of 
fur  in  winter. 

The  deciduous  trees  are  inconstant  friends  that 
fail  us  when  adverse  winds  do  blow;  but  the  pine 
and  all  its  tribe  look  winter  cheerily  in  the  face, 
tossing  the  snow,  masquerading  in  his  arctic  livery, 
in  fact  holding  high  carnival  from  fall  to  spring. 


A   SPRAY   OF   PINE  41 

The  Norseman  of  the  woods,  lofty  and  aspiring, 
tree  without  bluster  or  noise,  that  sifts  the  howling 
storm  into  a  fine  spray  of  sound;  symmetrical  tree, 
tapering,  columnar,  shaped  as  in  a  lathe,  the  preor- 
dained mast  of  ships,  the  mother  of  colossal  tim- 
bers ;  centralized,  towering,  patriarchal,  coming  down 
from  the  foreworld,  counting  centuries  in  thy  rings 
and  outlasting  empires  in  thy  decay. 

A  little  tall  talk  seems  not  amiss  on  such  a  sub- 
ject. The  American  or  white  pine  has  been  known 
to  grow  to  a  height  of  two  hundred  and  sixty  feet, 
slender  and  tapering  as  a  rush,  and  equally  available 
for  friction  matches  or  the  mast  of  a  ship  of  the 
line.  It  is  potent  upon  the  sea  and  upon  the  land, 
and  lends  itself  to  become  a  standard  for  giants  or 
a  toy  for  babes,  with  equal  readiness.  No  other 
tree  so  widely  useful  in  the  mechanic  arts,  or  so 
beneficent  in  the  economy  of  nature.  House  of 
refuge  for  the  winter  birds,  and  inn  and  hostelry 
for  the  spring  and  fall  emigrants.  All  the  northern 
creatures  are  more  or  less  dependent  upon  the  pine. 
Nature  has  made  a  singular  exception  in  the  confor- 
mation of  the  beaks  of  certain  birds,  that  they  might 
the  better  feed  upon  the  seeds  of  its  cones,  as  in 
the  crossbills.  Then  the  pine  grosbeak  and  pine 
linnet  are  both  nurslings  of  this  tree.  Certain  of 
the  warblers,  also,  the  naturalist  seldom  finds  except 
amid  its  branches. 

The  dominant  races  come  from  the  region  of  the 
pine. 


42  SIGNS  AND   SEASONS 

"  "Who  liveth  by  the  ragged  pine 
Foundeth  a  heroic  line  ; " 

says  Emerson. 

"  Who  liveth  in  the  palace  hall 
Waneth  fast  and  spendeth  all." 

The  pines  of  Norway  and  Sweden  sent  out  the 
vikings,  and  out  of  the  pine  woods  of  northern 
Europe  came  the  virile  barbarian  overrunning  the 
effete  southern  countries. 

"And  grant  to  dwellers  with  the  pine 
Dominion  o'er  the  palm  and  vine." 

There  is  something  sweet  and  piny  about  the  north- 
ern literatures  as  contrasted  with  those  of  the  volu- 
ble and  passionate  south,  —  something  in  them  that 
heals  the  mind's  hurts  like  a  finer  balsam.  In 
reading  Bjornson,  or  Andersen,  or  Kussian  Turge- 
neff,  though  one  may  not  be  in  contact  with  the 
master  spirits  of  the  world,  he  is  yet  inhaling  an 
atmosphere  that  is  resinous  and  curative;  he  is 
under  an  influence  that  is  arboreal,  temperate,  bal- 
samic. 

"The  white  pine,"  says  Wilson  Elagg  in  his 
"Woods  and  By- Ways  of  New  England,"  "has  no 
legendary  history.  Being  an  American  tree,  it  is 
celebrated  neither  in  poetry  nor  romance."  Not 
perhaps  in  Old  World  poetry  and  romance,  but  cer- 
tainly in  that  of  the  New  World.  The  New  Eng- 
land poets  have  not  overlooked  the  pine,  however 
much  they  may  have  gone  abroad  for  their  themes 
and  tropes.  Whittier's  "My  Playmate"  is  written 
to  the  low  monotone  of  the  pine. 


A   SPRAY   OF   PINE  43 

"  The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low; 
The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow." 

Lowell's  "To  a  Pine-Tree"  is  well  known,  — 

"  Far  up  on  Katahdin  thou  towerest 

Purple-blue  with  the  distance  and  vast ; 
Like  a  cloud  o'er  the  lowlands  thou  lowerest, 
That  hangs  poised  on  a  lull  in  the  blast 
To  its  fall  leaning  awful." 

In   his   "  A   Mood  "   his   attention  is  absorbed   by 

this  tree,  and  in  the  poet's  quest  of  the   muse   he 

says,  — 

"  I  haunt  the  pine-dark  solitudes, 
With  soft  brown  silence  carpeted." 

But  the  real  white  pine  among  our  poets  is  Emer- 
son. Against  that  rustling  deciduous  background 
of  the  New  England  poets  he  shows  dark  and 
aspiring.  Emerson  seems  to  have  a  closer  fellow- 
ship with  the  pine  than  with  any  other  tree,  and 
it  recurs  again  and  again  in  his  poems.  In  his 
"Garden"  the  pine  is  the  principal  vegetable, — 
"the  snow-loving  pines,"  as  he  so  aptly  says,  and 
"the  hemlocks  tall,  untamable."  It  is  perhaps 
from  the  pine  that  he  gets  the  idea  that  "Nature 
loves  the  number  five ; "  its  leaves  are  in  fives  and 
its  whorl  of  branches  is  composed  of  five.  His 
warbler  is  the  "pine  warbler,"  and  he  sees  "the 
pigeons  in  the  pines,"  where  they  are  seldom  to  be 
seen.  He  even  puts  a  "pine  state-house"  in  his 
"Boston  Hymn." 

But,  more  than  that,   his  "Woodnotes, "  one  of 
his  longest  poems,  is  mainly  the  notes  of  the  pine. 


44  SIGNS  AND  SEASONS 

Theodore  Parker  said  that  a  tree  that  talked  like 
Emerson's  pine  ought  to  be  cut  down;  but  if  the 
pine  were  to  find  a  tongue,  I  should  sooner  expect 
to  hear  the  Emersonian  dialect  from  it  than  almost 
any  other.      It  would  be  pretty  high  up,  certainly, 
and  go  over  the  heads  of  most  of  the  other  trees. 
It  were  sure  to  be  pointed,  though  the  point  few 
could  see.     And  it  would  not  be  garrulous  and  loud- 
mouthed, though  it  might  talk  on  and  on.    Whether 
it  would  preach  or  not  is  a  question,  but  I  have  no 
doubt   it  would  be  a  fragrant  healing  gospel  if  it 
did.      I   think   its   sentences  would   be   short  ones 
with    long    pauses   between    them,    and    that    they 
would  sprout  out  of  the  subject  independently  and 
not  connect  or  interlock  very  much.      There  would 
be  breaks  and  chasms  or  maybe  some  darkness  be- 
tween the  lines,  but  I  should  expect  from  it  a  lofty, 
cheerful,   and  all-the-year-round   philosophy.      The 
temptation  to  be  oracular  would  no  doubt  be  great, 
and  could  be  more  readily  overlooked  in  this  tree 
than  in  any  other.      Then,  the  pine  being  the  oldest 
tree,    great  wisdom   and  penetration  might  be  ex- 
pected of  it. 

Though  Emerson's  pine  boasts 

"  My  garden  is  the  cloven  rock, 
And  my  manure  the  snow; 
And  drifting  sand-heaps  feed  my  stock, 
In  summer's  scorching  glow,"  — 

yet  the  great  white  pine  loves  a  strong  deep  soil. 
How  it  throve  along  our  river  bottom  and  pointed 
out  the  best  land  to  the  early  settlers!    Remnants 


A   SPRAY  OF  PINE  45 

of  its  stumps  are  still  occasionally  seen  in  land  that 
has  been  given  to  the  plow  these  seventy  or  eighty 
years.  In  Pennsylvania  the  stumps  are  wrenched 
from  the  ground  by  machinery  and  used  largely  for 
fencing.  Laid  upon  their  side  with  their  wide 
branching  roots  in  the  air,  they  form  a  barrier 
before  which  even  the  hound-pursued  deer  may  well 
pause. 

This  aboriginal  tree  is  fast  disappearing  from  the 
country.  Its  second  growth  seems  to  be  a  degen- 
erate race,  what  the  carpenters  contemptuously  call 
pumpkin  pine,  on  account  of  its  softness.  All  the 
large  tracts  and  provinces  of  the  original  tree  have 
been  invaded  and  ravished  by  the  lumbermen,  so 
that  only  isolated  bands,  and  straggling  specimens, 
like  the  remnants  of  a  defeated  and  disorganized 
army,  are  now  found  scattered  up  and  down  the 
country.  The  spring  floods  on  our  northern  rivers 
have  for  decades  of  years  been  moving  seething 
walls  of  pine  logs,  sweeping  down  out  of  the  wil- 
derness. I  remember  pausing  beside  a  mammoth 
pine  in  the  Adirondack  woods,  standing  a  little  to 
one  side  of  the  destroyer's  track,  that  must  have 
carried  its  green  crown  near  one  hundred  and  fifty 
feet  above  the  earth.  How  such  a  tree  impresses 
one!  How  it  swells  at  the  base  and  grows  rigid  as 
if  with  muscular  effort  in  its  determined  gripe  of 
the  earth !  How  it  lays  hold  of  the  rocks,  or  rends 
them  asunder  to  secure  its  hold !  Nearly  all  trunk, 
it  seems  to  have  shed  its  limbs  like  youthful  follies 
as  it  went  skyward,  or  as  the  builders  pull  down 


46  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

their  scaffoldings  and  carry  them  higher  as  the  tem- 
ple mounts;  nothing  superfluous,  no  waste  of  time 
or  energy,  the  one  purpose  to  cleave  the  empyrean 
steadily  held  to. 

At  the  Centennial  fair  I  saw  a  section  of  a  pine 
from  Canada  that  was  eight  feet  in  diameter,  and 
that  had  been  growing,  I  have  forgotten  how  many 
centuries.  But  this  was  only  a  sapling  beside  the 
redwoods  of  California,  one  of  which  would  carry 
several  such  trees  in  his  belt. 

In  the  absence  of "  the  pine,  the  hemlock  is  a 
graceful  and  noble  tree.  In  primitive  woods  it 
shoots  up  in  the  same  manner,  drawing  the  ladder 
up  after  it,  and  attains  an  altitude  of  nearly  or 
quite  a  hundred  feet.  It  is  the  poor  man's  pine, 
and  destined  to  humbler  uses  than  its  lordlier 
brother.  It  follows  the  pine  like  a  servitor,  keep- 
ing on  higher  and  more  rocky  ground,  and  going 
up  the  minor  branch  valleys  when  the  pine  follows 
only  the  main  or  mother  stream.  As  an  ornamental 
tree  it  is  very  pleasing,  and  deserves  to  be  cultivated 
more  than  it  is.  It  is  a  great  favorite  with  the 
sylvan  folk,  too.  The  ruffed  grouse  prefer  it  to 
the  pine;  it  is  better  shelter  in  winter,  and  its 
buds  are  edible.  The  red  squirrel  has  found  out 
the  seeds  in  its  cones,  and  they  are  an  important 
part  of  his  winter  stores.  Some  of  the  rarer  war- 
blers, too,  like  the  Blackburnian  and  the  blue  yel- 
low-back, I  never  find  except  among  the  hemlocks. 
The  older  ornithologists,  Audubon  and  Wilson, 
named  a  "  hemlock   warbler "  also,    but    this    bird 


A  SPRAY   OF   PINE  47 

turns  out  to  be  none  other  than  the  young  of  the 
Blackburnian  described  as  a  new  species  and  named 
for  its  favorite  tree. 

All  trees  in  primitive  woods  are  less  social,  less 
disposed  to  intermingle,  than  trees  in  groves  or 
fields:  they  are  more  heady;  they  meet  only  on 
high  grounds;  they  shake  hands  over  the  heads  of 
their  neighbors;  the  struggle  for  life  is  sharper  and 
more  merciless,  —  in  these  and  other  respects  sug- 
gesting men  in  cities.  One  tree  falls  against  a  more 
stanch  one,  and  bruises  only  itself;  a  weaker  one  it 
carries  to  the  ground  with  it. 

Both  the  pine  and  the  hemlock  make  friends  with 
the  birch,  the  maple,  and  the  oak,  and  one  of  the 
most  pleasing  and  striking  features  of  our  autumnal 
scenery  is  a  mountain  side  sown  broadcast  with 
these  intermingled  trees,  forming  a  combination  of 
colors  like  the  richest  tapestry,  the  dark  green  giv- 
ing body  and  permanence,  the  orange  and  yellow 
giving  light  and  brilliancy. 


Ill 

HARD  FARE 

Q1  ITCH  a  winter  as  was  that  of  1880-81  —  deep 
^^  snows  and  zero  weather  for  nearly  three  months 
—  proves  especially  trying  to  the  wild  creatures 
that  attempt  to  face  it.  The  supply  of  fat  (or  fuel) 
with  which  their  bodies  become  stored  in  the  fall  is 
rapidly  exhausted  by  the  severe  and  uninterrupted 
cold,  and  the  sources  from  which  fresh  supplies  are 
usually  obtained  are  all  but  wiped  out.  Even  the 
fox  was  very  hard  pressed  and  reduced  to  the  un- 
usual straits  of  eating  frozen  apples;  the  pressure 
of  hunger  must  be  great,  indeed,  to  compel  Reynard 
to  take  up  with  such  a  diet.  A  dog  will  eat  corn, 
but  he  cannot  digest  it,  and  I  doubt  if  the  fox  ex- 
tracted anything  more  than  the  cider  from  the  frozen 
and  thawed  apples.  They  perhaps  served  to  amuse 
and  occupy  his  stomach  for  the  time.  Humboldt 
says  wolves  eat  earth,  especially  clay,  during  win- 
ter, and  Pliny  makes  a  similar  observation.  In 
Greenland  the  dog  eats  seaweed  when  other  food 
fails.  In  tropical  countries,  during  the  tropical 
winter,  many  savage  tribes  eat  clay.  It  distends 
their  stomachs,  and  in  a  measure  satisfies  the  crav- 
ings of  hunger.      During  the  season  referred  to,  the 


50  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

crows  appeared  to  have  little  else  than  frozen  apples 
for  many  weeks;  they  hung  about  the  orchards  as 
a  last  resort,  and,  after  scouring  the  desolate  land- 
scape over,  would  return  to  their  cider  with  resig- 
nation, but  not  with  cheerful  alacrity.  They  grew 
very  bold  at  times,  and  ventured  quite  under  my 
porch,  and  filched  the  bones  that  Lark,  the  dog, 
had  left.  I  put  out  some  corn  on  the  wall  near  by, 
and  discovered  that  crows  will  not  eat  corn  in  the 
winter,  except  as  they  can  break  up  the  kernels. 
It  is  too  hard  for  their  gizzards  to  grind.  Then 
the  crow,  not  being  properly  a  granivorous  bird, 
but  a  carnivorous,  has  not  the  digestive,  or  rather 
the  pulverizing  power  of  the  domestic  fowls.  The 
difficulty  also  during  such  a  season  of  coming  at  the 
soil  and  obtaining  gravel- stones,  which,  in  such 
cases,  are  really  the  millstones,  may  also  have 
something  to  do  with  it.  Corn  that  has  been 
planted  and  has  sprouted,  crows  will  swallow  read- 
ily enough,  because  it  is  then  soft,  and  is  easily 
ground.  My  impression  has  always  been  that  in 
spring  and  summer  they  will  also  pick  up  any 
chance  kernels  the  planters  may  have  dropped.  But, 
as  I  observed  them  the  past  winter,  they  always 
held  the  kernel  under  one  foot  upon  the  wall,  and 
picked  it  to  pieces  before  devouring  it.  This  is  the 
manner  of  the  jays  also.  The  jays,  perhaps,  had  a 
tougher  time  during  the  winter  than  the  crows, 
because  they  do  not  eat  fish  or  flesh,  but  depend 
mainly  upon  nuts.  A  troop  of  them  came  eagerly 
to  my  ash-heap  one  morning,  which  had  just  been 


HARD   FARE  51 

uncovered  by  the  thaw,  but  they  found  little  except 
cinders  for  their  gizzards,  which,  maybe,  was  what 
they  wanted.  They  had  foraged  nearly  all  winter 
upon  my  neighbor's  corn-crib,  and  probably  their 
millstones  were  dull  and  needed  replacing.  They 
reached  the  corn  through  the  opening  between  the 
slats,  and  were  the  envy  of  the  crows,  who  watched 
them  from  the  near  trees,  but  dared  not  venture 
up.  The  chickadee,  which  is  an  insectivorous  bird, 
will  eat  corn  in  winter.  It  will  carry  a  kernel  to 
the  limb  of  a  tree,  where,  held  beneath  its  tiny 
foot,  it  will  peck  out  the  eye  or  chit  of  the  corn,  — 
the  germinal  part  only.  I  have  also  seen  the  wood- 
pecker in  winter  eat  the  berries  of  the  poison  ivy. 
Quails  will  eat  the  fruit  of  the  poison  sumac,  and 
grouse  are  killed  with  their  crops  distended  with 
the  leaves  of  the  laurel.  Grouse  also  eat  the  ber- 
ries of  the  bitter-sweet. 

The  general  belief  among  country-people  that  the 
jay  hoards  up-  nuts  for  winter  use  has  probably 
some  foundation  in  fact,  though  one  is  at  a  loss  to 
know  where  he  could  place  his  stores  so  that  they 
would  not  be  pilfered  by  the  mice  and  the  squirrels. 
An  old  hunter  told  me  he  had  seen  jays  secreting 
beechnuts  in  a  knothole  in  a  tree.  Probably  a 
red  squirrel  saw  them,  too,  and  laughed  behind  his 
tail.  One  day,  in  October,  two  friends  of  mine, 
out  hunting,  saw  a  blue  jay  carrying  off  chestnuts 
to  a  spruce  swamp.  He  came  and  went  with  great 
secrecy  and  dispatch.  He  had  several  hundred 
yards   to  fly  each   way,    but   occupied   only  a  few 


52  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

minutes  each  trip.  The  hunters  lay  in  wait  to 
shoot  him,  but  so  quickly  would  he  seize  his  chest- 
nut and  be  off,  that  he  made  more  than  a  dozen 
trips  before  they  killed  him. 

A  lady  writing  to  me  from  Iowa  says:  "I  must 
tell  you  what  I  saw  a  blue  jay  do  last  winter. 
Flying  down  to  the  ground  in  front  of  the  house, 
he  put  something  in  the  dead  grass,  drawing  the 
grass  over  it,  first  on  one  side,  then  on  the  other, 
tramped  it  down  just  exactly  as  a  squirrel  would, 
then  walked  around  the  spot,  examining  it  to  see 
if  it  was  satisfactory.  After  he  had  flown  away,  I 
went  out  to  see  what  he  had  hidden ;  it  was  a  nicely 
shucked  peanut  that  he  had  laid  up  for  a  time  of 
scarcity."  Since  then  I  have  myself  made  similar 
observations.  I  have  several  times  seen  jays  carry 
off  chestnuts  and  hide  them  here  and  there  upon 
the  ground.  They  put  only  one  in  a  place,  and 
covered  it  up  with  grass  or  leaves.  Instead,  there- 
fore, of  hoarding  up  nuts  for  future  use,  when  the 
jay  carries  them  ofif,  he  is  really  planting  them. 
When  the  snows  come  these  nuts  are  lost  to  him, 
even  if  he  remembered  the  hundreds  of  places  where 
he  had  dropped  them.  May  not  this  fact  account 
in  a  measure  for  the  oak  and  chestnut  trees  that 
spring  up  where  a  pine  forest  has  been  cleared  from 
the  ground?  Probably  the  crows  secrete  nuts  in 
the  same  way.  The  acorns  at  least  germinate  and 
remain  small,  insignificant  shoots  until  the  pine  is 
cut  away  and  they  have  a  chance.  In  almost  any 
pine  wood  these  baby  oaks  may  be  seen  scattered 


HARD  FARE  53 

here  and  there.  Jays  will  carry  off  and  secrete  corn 
in  the  same  way.  One  winter  I  put  out  ears  of 
corn  near  my  study  window  to  attract  these  birds. 
They  were  not  long  in  finding  them  out,  nor  long 
in  stripping  the  cob  of  its  kernels.  They  finally 
came  to  the  window-sill  and  picked  up  the  loose 
kernels  I  scattered  there.  At  no  time  did  they  eat 
any  on  the  spot,  but  were  solely  intent  on  carrying 
it  away.  They  would  take  eight  or  ten  grains  at 
a  time,  apparently  holding  it  in  the  throat  and  bill. 
They  carried  it  away  and  deposited  it  in  all  manner 
of  places;  sometimes  on  the  ground,  sometimes  in 
decayed  trees.  Once  I  saw  a  jay  deposit  his  load 
in  an  old  worm's  nest  in  a  near-by  apple-tree. 
Whether  these  stores  were  visited  afterward  by  the 
birds,  I  cannot  say.  Red-headed  woodpeckers  have 
been  seen  to  fill  crevices  in  posts  and  rails  with 
acorns,  where  they  were  found  and  eaten  by  gray 
squirrels.  Oregon  and  Mexican  woodpeckers  drill 
holes  in  decayed  trees,  and  store  them  with  acorns, 
putting  but  one  acorn  in  a  hole,  but  hundreds  of 
holes  in  a  tree  or  branch. 

A  bevy  of  quail  in  my  vicinity  got  through  the 
winter  by  feeding  upon  the  little  black  beans  con- 
tained in  the  pods  of  the  common  locust.  For  many 
weeks  their  diet  must  have  been  almost  entirely 
leguminous.  The  surface  snow  in  the  locust-grove 
which  they  frequented  was  crossed  in  every  direc- 
tion with  their  fine  tracks,  like  a  chain-stitch  upon 
muslins,  showing  where  they  went  from  pod  to  pod 
and  extracted  the  contents.      Where  quite  a  large 


54  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

branch,  filled  with  pods,  lay  upon  the  snow,  it 
looked  as  if  the  whole  flock  had  dined  or  breakfasted 
off  it.  The  wind  seemed  to  shake  down  the  pods 
about  as  fast  as  they  were  needed.  When  a  fresh 
fall  of  snow  had  blotted  out  everything,  it  was  not 
many  hours  before  the  wind  had  placed  upon  the 
cloth  another  course;  but  it  was  always  the  same 
old  course  —  beans,  beans.  What  would  the 
birds  and  the  fowls  do  during  such  winters,  if  the 
trees  and  the  shrubs  and  plants  all  dropped  their 
fruit  and  their  seeds  in  the  fall,  as  they  do  their 
leaves  ?  They  would  nearly  all  perish.  The  apples 
that  cling  to  the  trees,  the  pods  that  hang  to  the 
lowest  branches,  and  the  seeds  that  the  various  weeds 
and  grasses  hold  above  the  deepest  snows,  alone 
make  it  possible  for  many  birds  to  pass  the  winter 
among  us.  The  red  squirrel,  too,  what  would  he  do  ? 
He  lays  up  no  stores  like  the  provident  chipmunk, 
but  scours  about  for  food  in  all  weathers,  feeding 
upon  the  seeds  in  the  cones  of  the  hemlock  that 
still  cling  to  the  tree,  upon  sumac-bobs,  and  the 
seeds  of  frozen  apples.  I  have  seen  the  ground 
under  a  wild  apple-tree  that  stood  near  the  woods 
completely  covered  with  the  "  chonkings "  of  the 
frozen  apples,  the  work  of  the  squirrels  in  getting 
at  the  seeds ;  not  an  apple  had  been  left,  and  appar- 
ently not  a  seed  had  been  lost.  But  the  squirrels 
in  this  particular  locality  evidently  got  pretty  hard 
up  before  spring,  for  they  developed  a  new  source 
of  food-supply.  A  young  bushy-topped  sugar-ma- 
ple, about  forty  feet  high,  standing  beside  a  stone 


HARD  FARE  55 

fence  near  the  woods,  was  attacked,  and  more  than 
half  denuded  of  its  bark.  The  object  of  the  squir- 
rels seemed  to  be  to  get  at  the  soft,  white,  muci- 
laginous substance  (cambium  layer)  between  the 
bark  and  the  wood.  The  ground  was  covered  with 
fragments  of  the  bark,  and  the  white,  naked  stems 
and  branches  had  been  scraped  by  fine  teeth. 
When  the  sap  starts  in  the  early  spring,  the  squir- 
rels •  add  this  to  their  scanty  supplies.  They  perfo- 
rate the  bark  of  the  branches  of  the  maples  with 
their  chisel-like  teeth,  and  suck  the  sweet  liquid 
as  it  slowly  oozes  out.  It  is  not  much  as  food,  but 
evidently  it  helps. 

I  have  said  the  red  squirrel  does  not  lay  by  a 
store  of  food  for  winter  use,  like  the  chipmunk  and 
the  wood-mice;  yet  in  the  fall  he  sometimes  hoards 
in  a  tentative,  temporary  kind  of  way.  I  have  seen 
his  savings  —  butternuts  and  black  walnuts  —  stuck 
here  and  there  in  saplings  and  trees  near  his  nest; 
sometimes  carefully  inserted  in  the  upright  fork  of 
a  limb  or  twig.  One  day,  late  in  November,  I 
counted  a  dozen  or  more  black  walnuts  put  away  in 
this  manner  in  a  little  grove  of  locusts,  chestnuts, 
and  maples  by  the  roadside,  and  could  but  smile 
at  the  wise  forethought  of  the  rascally  squirrel. 
His  supplies  were  probably  safer  that  way  than  if 
more  elaborately  hidden.  They  were  well  distrib- 
uted; his  eggs  were  not  all  in  one  basket,  and  he 
could  go  away  from  home  without  any  fear  that  his 
storehouse  would  be  broken  into  in  his  absence. 
The  next  week,  when  I  passed  that  way,  the  nuts 


56  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

were   all  gone  but  two.      I  saw  the  squirrel  that 
doubtless  laid  claim  to  them,  on  each  occasion. 

There  is  one  thing  the  red  squirrel  knows  uner- 
ringly that  I  do  not  (there  are  probably  several 
other  things) ;  that  is,  on  which  side  of  the  butter- 
nut the  meat  lies.  He  always  gnaws  through  the 
shell  so  as  to  strike  the  kernel  broadside,  and  thus 
easily  extract  it;  while  to  my  eyes  there  is  no 
external  mark  or  indication,  in  the  form  or  appear- 
ance of  the  nut,  as  there  is  in  the  hickory-nut,  by 
which  I  can  tell  whether  the  edge  or  the  side  of  the 
meat  is  toward  me.  But  examine  any  number  of 
nuts  that  the  squirrels  have  rifled,  and,  as  a  rule, 
you  will  find  they  always  drill  through  the  shell  at 
the  one  spot  where  the  meat  will  be  most  exposed. 
It  stands  them  in  hand  to  know,  and  they  do  know. 
Doubtless,  if  butternuts  were  a  main  source  of  my 
food,  and  I  were  compelled  to  gnaw  into  them,  I 
should  learn,  too,  on  which  side  my  bread  was 
buttered. 

A  hard  winter  affects  the  chipmunks  very  little; 
they  are  snug  and  warm  in  their  burrows  in  the 
ground  and  under  the  rocks,  with  a  bountiful  store 
of  nuts  or  grain.  I  have  heard  of  nearly  a  half- 
bushel  of  chestnuts  being  taken  from  a  single  den. 
They  usually  hole  in  November,  and  do  not  come 
out  again  till  March  or  April,  unless  the  winter  is 
very  open  and  mild.  Gray  squirrels,  when  they 
have  been  partly  domesticated  in  parks  and  groves 
near  dwellings,  are  said  to  hide  their  nuts  here  and 
there  upon  the  ground,  and  in  winter  to  dig  them 


HARD   FARE  57 

up  from  beneath  the  snow,  always  hitting  the  spot 
accurately.  A  pair  of  flying  squirrels  which  I  ob- 
served one  season  in  an  unoccupied  country-house 
had  a  pile  of  large,  fine  chestnuts  near  their  nest 
till  spring,  when  the  nuts  disappeared.  They  prob- 
ably kept  them  till  the  period  of  greatest  scarcity, 
and  until  their  young  made  demands  upon  them. 

The  woodpeckers  and  chickadees  doubtless  find 
food  as  plentiful  during  severe  winters  as   during 
more  open  ones,  because  they  confine   their  search 
almost  entirely  to  the  trunks  and  branches  of  trees, 
where  the  latter  pick  up  the  eggs  of  insects  and 
various  microscopic  tidbits,   and  where  the  former 
find  their  accustomed  fare  of  eggs  and  larvae  also. 
An  enamel  of    ice   upon  the   trees   alone   puts  an 
embargo  upon  their  supplies.      At  such  seasons  the 
ruffed  grouse  "buds"  or   goes  hungry;   while  the 
snowbirds,  snow  buntings,   Canada  sparrows,   gold- 
finches,   shore   larks,    and    redpolls    are    dependent 
upon  the   weeds   and  grasses   that   rise   above    the 
snow,  and  upon  the  litter  of  the  haystack  and  barn- 
yard.     Neither  do  the  deep  snows  and  the  severe 
cold  materially   affect   the   supplies   of   the  rabbit. 
The  deeper  the  snow,  the  nearer  he  is  brought  to 
the  tops  of  the  tender  bushes  and  shoots.      I  see  in 
my  walks  where  he  has  cropped  the   tops   of  the 
small,  bushy,  soft  maples,   cutting  them  slantingly 
as  you  would  do  with  a  knife,  and  quite  as  smoothly. 
Indeed,  the  mark  was  so  like  that  of  a  knife  that, 
notwithstanding  the   tracks,   it  was  only  after  the 
closest  scrutiny  that   I  was   convinced   it  was   the 


58  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

sharp,  chisel-like  teeth  of  the  rabbit.  He  leaves 
no  chips,  and  apparently  makes  clean  work  of  every 
twig  he  cuts  off. 

The  wild  or  native  mice  usually  lay  up  stores  in 
the  fall,  in  the  shape  of  various  nuts,  grain,  and 
seeds,  yet  the  provident  instinct,  as  in  the  red 
squirrel  and  in  the  jay,  seems  only  partly  developed 
in  them;  instead  of  carrying  these  supplies  home, 
they  hide  them  in  the  nearest  convenient  place.  I 
have  known  them  to  carry  a  pint  or  more  of  hick- 
ory nuts  and  deposit  them  in  a  pair  of  boots  stand- 
ing in  the  chamber  of  an  outhouse.  Near  the 
chestnut-trees  they  will  fill  little  pocket-like  depres- 
sions in  the  ground  with  chestnuts;  in  a  grain-field 
they  carry  the  grain  under  stones;  under  some 
cover  beneath  cherry-trees  they  collect  great  num- 
bers of  cherry-pits.  Hence,  when  cold  weather 
comes,  instead  of  staying  at  home  like  the  chip- 
munk, they  gad  about  hither  and  thither  looking 
up  their  supplies.  One  may  see  their  tracks  on  the 
snow  everywhere  in  the  woods  and  fields  and  by 
the  roadside.  The  advantage  of  this  way  of  living 
is  that  it  leads  to  activity,  and  probably  to  socia- 
bility. 

These  wild  mice  are  fond  of  bees  and  of  honey, 
and  they  apparently  like  nothing  better  than  to  be 
allowed  to  take  up  their  quarters  in  winter  in  some 
vacant  space  in  a  hive  of  bees.  A  chamber  just 
over  the  bees  seems  to  be  preferred,  as  here  they 
get  the  benefit  of  the  warmth  generated  by  the 
insects.      One  very  cold  winter  I  wrapped  up  one 


HARD  FARE  59 

of  my  hives  with  my  shawl.      Before  long  I  noticed 
that  the  shawl  was  beginning  to  have  a  very  torn 
and  tattered  appearance.      On  examination,  I  found 
that   a  native  mouse  had  established  itself  in  the 
top  of  the  hive,  and  had  levied  a  ruinous  tax  upon 
the   shawl   to   make   itself    a   nest.      Never   was    a 
fabric  more  completely  reduced  into  its  original  ele- 
ments than  were  large  sections  of  that  shawl.     It 
was  a  masterly  piece  of  analysis.      The  work  of  the 
wheel  and  the  loom  was  exactly  reversed,  and  what 
was  once  shawl  was  now  the  finest  and  softest  of 
wool.      The  white-footed  mouse  is  much  more  com- 
mon along  the  fences  and  in  the  woods  than  one 
would  suspect.      One  winter  day  I  set  a  mouse-trap 
—  the  kind  known  as  the  delusion  trap  —  beneath 
some  ledges  in  the  edge  of  the  woods,  to  determine 
what  species  of  mouse  was  most  active  at  this  sea- 
son.     The  snow  fell  so  deeply  that  I  did  not  visit 
my  trap  for  two  or  three  weeks.      When  I  did  so, 
it  was  literally  packed   full   of  white-footed   mice. 
There  were  seven  in  all,  and  not  room  for  another. 
Our  woods  are  full  of   these   little    creatures,    and 
they  appear  to  have  a  happy,  social  time  of  it,  even 
in  the  severest  winters.      Their  little  tunnels  under 
the  snow  and  their  hurried  strides  upon  its  surface 
may   be   noted    everywhere.      They   link   tree    and 
stump,    or   rock   and    tree,    by   their   pretty   trails. 
They  evidently  travel  for  adventure  and  to  hear  the 
news,  as  well  as  for  food.      They  knoAV  that  foxes 
and  owls  are  about,  and  they  keep  pretty  close  to 
cover.      When  they  cross  an  exposed  place,  they  do 
it  hurriedly. 


60  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

Such  a  winter  as  I  have  referred  to  probably 
destroys  a  great  many  of  our  half-migratory  birds. 
The  mortality  appears  to  be  the  greatest  in  the 
Border  States,  where  so  many  species,  like  the 
sparrows,  robins,  bluebirds,  meadowlarks,  kinglets, 
etc.,  usually  pass  the  cold  season.  A  great  many 
birds  are  said  to  have  died  in  New  Jersey  and 
Pennsylvania,  including  game-birds.  A  man  in 
Chester  County  saw  a  fox  digging  in  the  snow;  on 
examining  the  spot,  he  found  half  a  dozen  quails 
frozen  to  death.  Game-birds  and  nearly  all  other 
birds  will  stand  the  severest  weather  if  food  is 
plenty;  but  to  hunger  and  cold  both,  the  hardiest 
species  may  succumb. 

Meadowlarks  often  pass  the  winter  as  far  north 
as  Pennsylvania.  A  man  residing  in  that  State 
relates  how,  in  the  height  of  the  severest  cold,  three 
half-famished  larks  came  to  his  door  in  quest  of 
food.  He  removed  the  snow  from  a  small  space, 
and  spread  the  poor  birds  a  lunch  of  various  grains 
and  seeds.  They  ate  heartily,  and  returned  again 
the  next  day,  and  the  next,  each  time  bringing  one 
or  more  drooping  and  half- starved  companions  with 
them,  till  there  was  quite  a  flock  of  them.  Their 
deportment  changed,  their  forms  became  erect  and 
their  plumage  glossy,  and  the  feeble  mendicants  be- 
camq  strong  and  vivacious  birds  again.  These  larks 
fell  in  good  hands,  but  I  am  persuaded  that  this 
species  suffered  more  than  any  other  of  our  birds 
during  that  winter.  In  the  spring  they  were  unusu- 
ally late  in  making  their  appearance,  —  the  first  one 


HARD   FARE  61 

noted  by  me  on  the  9th  of  April,  —  and  they  were 
scarce  in  my  locality  during  the  whole  season. 

Birds  not  of  a  feather  flock  together  in  winter. 
Hard  times  or  a  common  misfortune  makes  all  the 
world  akin.    A  Noah's  ark  with  antagonistic  species 
living  in  harmony  is  not  an  improbable  circumstance 
in  a  forty-day  and  a  forty-night  rain.      In  severe 
weather,  when  the  snow  lies  deep  on  the  ground,  I 
frequently  see  a  loose,  heterogeneous  troop  of  birds 
pass  my  door,    engaged  in  the  common  search  for 
food:   snowbirds,  Canada  sparrows,  and  goldfinches 
on  the  ground,  and  kinglets  and  nuthatches  in  the 
tree  above,  —  all  drifting  slowly  in  the  same  direc- 
tion, —  the  snowbirds  and  sparrows  closely  associ- 
ated, but  the  goldfinches  rather  clannish  and  exclu- 
sive, while  the  kinglets  and  nuthatches  keep  still 
more  aloof.      These  birds  were  probably  not  drawn, 
even  thus  loosely,  together  by  any  social  instincts, 
but  by  a  common  want;  all  were  hungry,  and  the 
activity  of  one  species  attracted  and  drew  after  it 
another  and  another.      "I  will  look  that  way,  too," 
the  kinglet  and  creeper  probably  said,   when  they 
saw  the  other  birds  busy,   and  heard  their  merry 
voices. 


ti 


IV 

THE   TRAGEDIES   OF  THE   NESTS 

n^HE  life  of  the  birds,  especially  of  our  migratory 
-*■-  song-birds,  is  a  series  of  adventures  and  of  hair- 
breadth escapes  by  flood  and  field.  Very  few  of 
them  probably  die  a  natural  death,  or  even  live  out 
half  their  appointed  days.  The  home  instinct  is 
strong  in  birds,  as  it  is  in  most  creatures;  and  I 
am  convinced  that  every  spring  a  large  number  of 
those  which  have  survived  the  Southern  campaign 
return  to  their  old  haunts  to  breed.  A  Connecticut 
farmer  took  me  out  under  his  porch  one  April  day, 
and  showed  me  a  phoebe-bird's  nest  six  stories  high. 
The  same  bird  had  no  doubt  returned  year  after 
year;  and  as  there  was  room  for  only  one  nest  upon 
her  favorite  shelf,  she  had  each  season  reared  a  new 
superstructure  upon  the  old  as  a  foundation.  I 
have  iieard  of  a  white  robin  —  an  albino  —  that 
nes  1  several  years  in  succession  in  the  suburbs  of 
a  Maryland  city.  A  sparrow  with  a  very  marked 
peculiarity  of  song  I  have  heard  several  seasons 
in  my  own  locality.  But  the  birds  do  not  all  live 
to  return  to  their  old  haunts:  the  bobolinks  and 
starlings  run  a  gauntlet  of  fire  from  the  Hudson  to 
the  Savannah,  and  the  robins  and  meadowlarks  and 


64  SIGNS  AND   SEASONS 

other  song-birds  are  shot  by  boys  and  pot-hunters 
in  great  numbers,  —  to  say  nothing  of  their  danger 
from  hawks  and  owls.  But  of  those  that  do  return, 
what  perils  beset  their  nests,  even  in  the  most 
favored  localities!  The  cabins  of  the  early  settlers, 
when  the  country  was  swarming  with  hostile  In- 
dians, were  not  surrounded  by  such  dangers.  The 
tender  households  of  the  birds  are  not  only  exposed 
to  hostile  Indians  in  the  shape  of  cats  and  collec- 
tors, but  to  numerous  murderous  and  bloodthirsty 
animals,  against  whom  they  have  no  defense  but 
concealment.  They  lead  the  darkest  kind  of  pioneer 
life,  even  in  our  gardens  and  orchards,  and  under 
the  walls  of  our  houses.  Not  a  day  or  a  night 
passes,  from  the  time  the  eggs  are  laid  till  the 
young  are  flown,  when  the  chances  are  not  greatly 
in  favor  of  the  nest  being  rifled  and  its  contents 
devoured,  —  by  owls,  skunks,  minks,  and  coons  at 
night,  and  by  crows,  jays,  squirrels,  weasels, 
snakes,  and  rats  during  the  day.  Infancy,  we  say, 
is  hedged  about  by  many  perils;  but  the  infancy  of 
birds  is  cradled  and  pillowed  in  peril.  An  old 
Michigan  settler  told  me  that  the  first  six  children 
that  were  born  to  him  died;  malaria  and  teething 
invariably  carried  them  off  when  they  had  reached 
a  certain  age;  but  other  children  were  born,  the 
country  improved,  and  by  and  by  the  babies  weath- 
ered the  critical  period,  and  the  next  six  lived 
and  grew  up.  The  birds,  too,  would  no  doubt 
persevere  six  times  and  twice  six  times,  if  the  sea- 
son were  long  enough,  and  finally  rear  their  family. 


THE   TRAGEDIES   OF  THE   NESTS  65 

but  the  waning  summer  cuts  them  short,  and  but 
few  species  have  the  heart  and  strength  to  make 
even  the  third  trial. 

The  first  nest-builders  in  spring,  like  the  first 
settlers  near  hostile  tribes,  sufi"er  the  most  casual- 
ties. A  large  proportion  of  the  nests  of  April  and 
May  are  destroyed;  their  enemies  have  been  many 
months  without  eggs,  and  their  appetites  are  keen 
for  them.  It  is  a  time,  too,  when  other  food  is 
scarce,  and  the  crows  and  squirrels  are  hard  put. 
But  the  second  nests  of  June,  and  still  more  the 
nests  of  July  and  August,  are  seldom  molested. 
It  is  rarely  that  the  nest  of  the  goldfinch  or  cedar- 
bird  is  harried. 

My  neighborhood  on  the  Hudson  is  perhaps  ex- 
ceptionally unfavorable  as  a  breeding  haunt  for  birds, 
owing  to  the  abundance  of  fish  crows  and  of    red 
squirrels;  and  the  season  of  which  this  chapter  is 
mainly  a  chronicle,   the   season  of  1881,   seems   to 
have  been  a  black-letter  one  even  for  this  place,  for 
at  least  nine  nests  out  of  every  ten  that  I  observed 
during    that    spring    and    summer    failed    of    their 
proper  issue.      From  the  first  nest  I  noted,  which 
was  that  of  a  bluebird,  —  built  (very  imprudently, 
I   thought   at   the   time)    in    a    squirrel-hole    in    a 
decayed    apple-tree,    about    the   last  of  April,    and 
which   came   to   naught,    even   the    mother-bird,    I 
suspect,  perishing  by  a  violent  death,  —  to  the  last, 
which  was  that  of  a  snowbird,  observed  in  August, 
among  the  Catskills,    deftly  concealed   in   a   mossy 
bank  by  the  side  of  a  road  that   skirted   a  wood. 


<^  SIGNS    AND   SEASONS 

wi  the  tall  thimble  blackberries  grew  in  abun- 
dance, and  from  which  the  last  young  one  was 
taken,  when  it  was  about  half  grown,  by  some 
nocturnal  walker  or  daylight  prowler,  some  un- 
toward fate  seemed  hovering  about  them.  It  was 
a  season  of  calamities,  of  violent  deaths,  of  pillage 
and  massacre,  among  our  feathered  neighbors.  For 
the  first  time  I  noticed  that  the  orioles  were  not 
safe  in  their  strong  pendent  nests.  Three  broods 
were  started  in  the  apple-trees,  only  a  few  yards 
from  the  house,  where,  for  several  previous  seasons, 
the  birds  had  nested  without  molestation;  but  this 
time  the  young  were  all  destroyed  when  about  half 
growr-  Their  chirping  and  chattering,  which  was 
so  ..oticeable  one  day,  suddenly  ceased  the  next. 
The  nests  were  probably  plundered  at  night,  and 
doubtless  by  the  little  red  screech  owl,  which  I 
know  is  a  denizen  of  these  old  orchards,  living  in 
the  deeper  cavities  of  the  trees.  The  owl  could 
alight  upon  the  top  of  the  nest,  and  easily  thrust 
his  mure  ■  claw  down  into  its  long  pocket  and 
seize  the  j  •  and  draw  them  forth.  The  tragedy 
of  one  of  the  nusts  was  heightened,  or  at  least  made 
more  palpable,  by  one  of  the  half-fledged  birds, 
either  in  its  attempt  to  escape  or  while  in  the 
clutches  of  the  enemy,  being  caught  and  entangled 
in  one  of  the  horse-hairs  by  which  the  nest  was 
stayed  and  held  to  the  limb  above.  There  it  hung 
bruised  and  dead,  gibbeted  to  its  own  cradle.  This 
nest  was  the  theatre  of  another  little  tragedy  later 
in  the  season.      Some  time  in  August  a  bluebird. 


THE   TRAGEDIES   OF   THE   NESTS  <    . 

indulging  its  propensity  to  peep  and  pry  into  .les 
and  crevices,  alighted  upon  it  and  probably  in- 
spected the  interior;  but  by  some  unlucky  move  it 
got  its  wings  entangled  in  this  same  fatal  horse-hair. 
Its  efforts  to  free  itself  appeared  only  to  result  in 
its  being  more  securely  and  hopelessly  bound;  and 
there  it  perished;  and  there  its  form,  dried  and 
embalmed  by  the  summer  heats,  was  yet  hanging 
in  September,  the  outspread  wings  and  plumage 
showing  nearly  as  bright  as  in  life. 

A  correspondent  writes  me  that  one  of  his  orioles 
got  entangled  in  a  cord  while  building  her  nest, 
and  that,  though  by  the  aid  of  a  ladder  he  reached' 
and  liberated  her,  she  died  soon  afterward  He 
also  found  a  "chippie"  (called  also  "hair-bu^") 
suspended  from  a  branch  by  a  horse-hair,  beneath 
a  partly-constructed  nest.  I  heard  of  a  cedar- bird 
caught  and  destroyed  in  the  same  way,  and  of  two 
young  bluebirds,  around  whose  legs  a  horse-hair 
had  become  so  tightly  wound  that  the  leers  withered 
up  and   dropped   off.      The   birds   be  fledged, 

and   finally   left   the  nest  with   the         .rs.      Such 
tragedies  are  probably  quite  common. 

Before  the  advent  of  civilization  in  this  country, 
the  oriole  probably  built  a  much  deeper  nest  than 
it  usually  does  at  present.  When  now  it  builds  in 
remote  trees  and  along  the  borders  of  the  woods, 
its  nest,  I  have  noticed,  is  long  and  gourd-shaped; 
but  in  orchards  and  near  dwellings  it  is  only  a  deep 
cup  or  pouch.  It  shortens  it  up  in  proportion  as 
the  danger  lessens.      Probably  a  succession  of  disas- 


68  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

trous  years,  like  the  one  under  review,  would  cause 
it  to  lengthen  it  again  beyond  the  reach  of  owl's 
talons  or  jay-bird's  beak. 

The  first  song  sparrow's  nest  I  observed  in  the 
spring  of  1881  was  in  a  field  under  a  fragment  of 
a  board,  the  board  bemg  raised  from  the  ground  a 
couple  of  inches  by  two  poles.  It  had  its  full  com- 
plement of  eggs,  and  probably  sent  forth  a  brood  of 
young  birds,  though  as  to  this  I  cannot  speak  posi- 
tively, as  I  neglected  to  observe  it  further.  It  was 
well  sheltered  and  concealed,  and  was  not  easily 
come  at  by  any  of  its  natural  enemies,  save  snakes 
and  weasels.  But  concealment  often  avails  little. 
In  May,  a  song  sparrow,  which  had  evidently  met 
with  disaster  earlier  in  the  season,  built  its  nest  in 
a  thick  mass  of  woodbine  against  the  side  of  my 
house,  about  fifteen  feet  from  the  ground.  Perhaps 
it  took  the  hint  from  its  cousin,  the  English  spar- 
row. The  nest  was  admirably  placed,  protected 
from  the  storms  by  the  overhanging  eaves  and  from 
all  eyes  by  the  thick  screen  of  leaves.  Only  by 
patiently  watching  the  suspicious  bird,  as  she  lin- 
gered near  with  food  in  her  beak,  did  I  discover 
its  whereabouts.  That  brood  is  safe,  I  thought, 
beyond  doubt.  But  it  was  not:  the  nest  was  pil- 
laged one  night,  either  by  an  owl,  or  else  by  a  rat 
that  had  climbed  into  the  vine,  seeking  an  entrance 
to  the  house.  The  mother  bird,  after  reflecting 
upon  her  ill-luck  about  a  week,  seemed  to  resolve 
to  try  a  different  system  of  tactics,  and  to  throw  all 
appearances  of  concealment  aside.      She  built  a  nest 


THE   TRAGEDIES   OF   THE   NESTS  69 

a  few  yards  from  the  house,  beside  the  drive,  upon 
a  smooth  piece  of  greensward.  There  was  not  a 
weed  or  a  shrub  or  anything  whatever  to  conceal  it 
or  mark  its  site.  The  structure  was  completed, 
and  incubation  had  begun,  before  I  discovered  what 
was  going  on.  "Well,  well,"  I  said,  looking  down 
upon  the  bird  almost  at  my  feet,  "this  is  going  to 
the  other  extreme  indeed;  now  the  cats  will  have 
you."  The  desperate  little  bird  sat  there  day  after 
day,  looking  like  a  brown  leaf  pressed  down  in  the 
short  green  grass.  As  the  weather  grew  hot,  her 
position  became  very  trying.  It  was  no  longer  a 
question  of  keeping  the  eggs  warm,  but  of  keeping 
them  from  roasting.  The  sun  had  no  mercy  on 
her,  and  she  fairly  panted  in  the  middle  of  the 
day.  In  such  an  emergency  the  male  robin  has 
been  known  to  perch  above  the  sitting  female  and 
shade  her  with  his  outstretched  wings.  But  in  this 
case  there  was  no  perch  for  the  male  bird,  had  he 
been  disposed  to  make  a  sunshade  of  himself.  I 
thought  to  lend  a  hand  in  this  direction  myself, 
and  so  stuck  a  leafy  twig  beside  the  nest.  This 
was  probably  an  unwise  interference:  it  guided 
disaster  to  the  spot;  the  nest  was  broken  up,  and 
the  mother  bird  was  probably  caught,  as  I  never 
saw  her  afterward. 

For  several  previous  summers  a  pair  of  kingbirds 
had  reared,  unmolested,  a  brood  of  young  in  an 
apple-tree,  only  a  few  yards  from  the  house;  but 
during  this  season  disaster  overtook  them  also. 
The  nest  was  completed,  the  eggs  laid,  and  incuba- 


70  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

tion  had  just  begun,  when,  one  morning  about  sun- 
rise, I  heard  loud  cries  of  distress  and  alarm  pro- 
ceed from  the  old  apple-tree.  Looking  out  of  the 
window,  I  saw  a  crow,  which  I  knew  to  be  a  fish 
crow,  perched  upon  the  edge  of  the  nest,  hastily 
bolting  the  eggs.  The  parent  birds,  usually  so 
ready  for  the  attack,  seemed  overcome  with  grief 
and  alarm.  They  fluttered  about  in  the  most  help- 
less and  bewildered  manner,  and  it  was  not  till  the 
robber  fled  on  my  approach  that  they  recovered 
themselves  and  charged  upon  him.  The  crow  scur- 
ried away  with  upturned,  threatening  head,  the 
furious  kingbirds  fairly  upon  his  back.  The  pair 
lingered  around  their  desecrated  nest  for  several 
days,  almost  silent,  and  saddened  by  their  loss,  and 
then  disappeared.  They  probably  made  another 
trial  elsewhere. 

The  fish  crow  only  fishes  when  it  has  destroyed 
all  the  eggs  and  young  birds  it  can  find.  It  is  the 
most  despicable  thief  and  robber  among  our  feath- 
ered creatures.  From  May  to  August  it  is  gorged 
with  the  fledgelings  of  the  nest.  It  is  fortunate 
that  its  range  is  so  limited.  In  size  it  is  smaller 
than  the  common  crow,  and  is  a  much  less  noble 
and  dignified  bird.  Its  caw  is  weak  and  feminine, 
—  a  sort  of  split  and  abortive  caw,  that  stamps  it 
the  sneak-thief  it  is.  This  crow  is  common  farther 
south,  but  is  not  found  in  this  State,  so  far  as  I 
have  observed,  except  in  the  valley  of  the  Hudson. 

One  season  a  pair  of  them  built  a  nest  in  a  Nor- 
way spruce  that  stood  amid  a  dense  growth  of  other 


THE   TRAGEDIES  OF  THE   NESTS  71 

ornamental  trees  near  a  large  unoccupied  house. 
They  sat  down  amid  plenty.  The  wolf  established 
himself  in  the  fold.  The  many  birds  —  robins, 
thrushes,  finches,  vireos,  pewees  —  that  seek  the 
vicinity  of  dwellings  (especially  of  these  large  coun- 
try residences  with  their  many  trees  and  park-like 
grounds),  for  the  greater  safety  of  their  eggs  and 
young,  were  the  easy  and  convenient  victims  of 
these  robbers.  They  plundered  right  and  left,  and 
were  not  disturbed  till  their  young  were  nearly 
fledged,  when  some  boys,  who  had  long  before 
marked  them  as  their  prize,  rifled  the  nest. 

The  song-birds  nearly  all  build  low;  their  cradle 
is  not  upon  the  treetop.  It  is  only  birds  of  prey 
that  fear  danger  from  below  more  than  from  above, 
and  that  seek  the  higher  branches  for  their  nests. 
A  line  five  feet  from  the  ground  would  run  above 
more  than  half  the  nests,  and  one  ten  feet  would 
bound  more  than  three  fourths  of  them.  It  is  only 
the  oriole,  the  wood  pewee,  the  tanager,  the  war- 
bling vireo,  and  two  or  three  warblers,  that,  as  a 
rule,  go  higher  than  this.  The  crows  and  jays  and 
other  enemies  of  the  birds  have  learned  to  explore 
this  belt  pretty  thoroughly.  But  the  leaves  and 
the  protective  coloring  of  most  nests  baffle  them  as 
effectually,  no  doubt,  as  they  do  the  professional 
oologist.  The  nest  of  the  red-eyed  vireo  is  one  of 
the  most  artfully  placed  in  the  wood.  It  is  just 
beyond  the  point  where  the  eye  naturally  pauses  in 
its  search;  namely,  on  the  extreme  end  of  the 
lowest  branch  of  the  tree,  usually  four  or  five  feet 


72  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

from  the  ground.      One  looks   up   and  down    and 
through  the  tree,  —  shoots  his  eye-beams  into  it  as 
he  might  discharge  his  gun  at  some  game  hidden 
there,  but  the  drooping  tip  of  that  low  horizontal 
branch,  —  who  would  think  of   pointing  his   piece 
just  there?     If  a  crow  or  other  marauder  were  to 
alight  upon  the  branch  or  upon  those  above  it,  the 
nest  would  be  screened  from  him  by  the  large  leaf 
that  usually  forms  a  canopy  immediately  above  it. 
The  nest-hunter,   standing  at  the  foot  of  the  tree 
and  looking  straight  before  him,  might  discover  it 
easily,    were  it  not  for  its   soft,    neutral   gray  tint 
which  blends  so  thoroughly  with  the  trunks  and 
branches  of  trees.      Indeed,  I  think  there  is  no  nest 
in  the  woods  —  no  arboreal  nest  —  so  well  concealed. 
The  last  one  I  saw  was  pendent  from  the  end  of  a 
low  branch  of  a  maple,  that  nearly  grazed  the  clap- 
boards   of  an  unused    hay-barn  in  a  remote  back- 
woods  clearing.      I   peeped    through   a   crack,    and 
saw   the   old   birds  feed  the  nearly  fledged  young 
within  a  few  inches  of  my  face.      And  yet  the  cow- 
bird  finds  this  nest  and  drops  her  parasitical  egg  in 
it.    Her  tactics  in  this  as  in  other  cases  are  probably 
to  watch  the  movements  of  the  parent  bird.      She 
may  often  be  seen  searching  anxiously  through  the 
trees  or  bushes  for  a  suitable  nest,  yet  she  may  still 
oftener  be  seen  perched  upon  some  good  point  of 
observation  watching  the  birds  as  they  come  and  go 
about  her.      There  is  no  doubt  that,  in  many  cases, 
the  cowbird  makes  room  for  her   own  illegitimate 
egg  in  the  nest  by  removing  one  of  the  bird's  own. 


THE   TRAGEDIES   OF   THE   NESTS  73 

When    the  cowbird  finds    two  or  more    eggs  in  a 
nest  in  which  she  wishes  to  deposit  her  own,  she 
will  remove  one  of  them.   I  found  a  sparrow's  nest 
with  two  sparrow's  eggs  and  one  cowbird's  egg,  and 
another    egg   lying   a  foot   or   so   below  it   on   the 
ground.      I  replaced  the  ejected  egg,  and  the  next 
day  found  it  again  removed,  and  another  cowbird's 
egg  in  its  place.     I  put  it   back  the  second  time, 
when  it  was  again  ejected,  or  destroyed,  for  I  failed 
to  find  it  anywhere.      Very  alert  and  sensitive  birds 
like  the  warblers,  often  bury  the  strange  egg  beneath 
a   second  nest  built  on  top  of   the  old.      A  lady, 
living  in  the  suburbs  of  an  eastern  city,  one  morn- 
ing  heard   cries   of   distress   from   a  pair  of   house 
wrens  that  had  a  nest  in  a  honeysuckle  on  her  front 
porch.      On  looking  out  of  the  window,  she  beheld 
this  little  comedy,  —  comedy    from    her    point    of 
view,  but  no  doubt  grim  tragedy  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  wrens:  a  cowbird  with  a  wren's  egg  in 
its  beak  running  rapidly  along  the  walk,  with  the 
outraged    wrens    forming    a    procession    behind    it, 
screaming,  scolding,  and  gesticulating  as  only  these 
voluble  little  birds  can.     The  cowbird  had  probably 
been  surprised  in  the  act  of  violatmg  the  nest,  and 
the  wrens  were  giving  her  a  piece  of  their  minds. 

Every  cowbird  is  reared  at  the  expense  of  two  or 
more  song-birds.  For  every  one  of  these  dusky 
little  pedestrians  there  amid  the  grazing  cattle  there 
are  two  or  more  sparrows,  or  vireos,  or  warblers, 
the  less.  It  is  a  big  price  to  pay,  —  two  larks  for 
a  bunting,  —  two    sovereigns    for    a  shilling;    but 


74  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

Nature  does  not  hesitate  occasionally  to  contradict 
herself  in  just  this  way.  The  young  of  the  cow- 
bird  is  disproportionately  large  and  aggressive,  one 
might  say  hoggish.  When  disturbed,  it  will  clasp 
the  nest  and  scream  and  snap  its  beak  threateningly. 
One  hatched  out  in  a  song  sparrow's  nest  which  was 
under  my  observation,  and  would  soon  have  over- 
ridden and  overborne  the  young  sparrow  which 
came  out  of  the  shell  a  few  hours  later,  had  I  not 
interfered  from  time  to  time  and  lent  the  young 
sparrow  a  helping  hand.  Every  day  I  would  visit 
the  nest  and  take  the  sparrow  out  from  under  the 
pot-bellied  interloper,  and  place  it  on  top,  so  that 
presently  it  was  able  to  hold  its  own  against  its 
enemy.  Both  birds  became  fledged  and  left  the 
nest  about  the  same  time.  Whether  the  race  was 
an  even  one  after  that,  I  know  not. 

I  noted  but  two  warblers'  nests  during  that  sea- 
son, one  of  the  black-throated  blue-back  and  one 
of  the  redstart,  —  the  latter  built  in  an  apple-tree 
but  a  few  yards  from  a  little  rustic  summer-house 
where  I  idle  away  many  summer  days.  The  lively 
little  birds,  darting  and  flashing  about,  attracted 
my  attention  for  a  week  before  I  discovered  their 
nest.  They  probably  built  it  by  working  early  in 
the  morning,  before  I  appeared  upon  the  scene,  as 
I  never  saw  them  with  material  in  their  beaks. 
Guessing  from  their  movements  that  the  nest  was 
in  a  large  maple  that  stood  near  by,  I  climbed  the 
tree  and  explored  it  thoroughly,  looking  especially 
in  the  forks  of  the  branches,  as  the  authorities  say 


THE   TRAGEDIES   OF   THE   NESTS  75 

these  birds  build  in  a  fork.  But  no  nest  could  I 
find.  Indeed,  how  can  one  by  searching  find  a 
bird's  nest?  I  overshot  the  mark;  the  nest  was 
much  nearer  me,  almost  under  my  very  nose,  and 
I  discovered  it,  not  by  searching,  but  by  a  casual 
glance  of  the  eye,  while  thinking  of  other  matters. 
The  bird  was  just  settling  upon  it  as  I  looked  up 
from  my  book  and  caught  her  in  the  act.  The  nest 
was  built  near  the  end  of  a  long,  knotty,  horizontal 
branch  of  an  apple-tree,  but  effectually  hidden  by 
the  grouping  of  the  leaves;  it  had  three  eggs,  one 
of  which  proved  to  be  barren.  The  two  young 
birds  grew  apace,  and  were  out  of  the  nest  early  in 
the  second  week ;  but  something  caught  one  of  them 
the  first  night.  The  other  probably  grew  to  matu- 
rity, as  it  disappeared  from  the  vicinity  with  its 
parents  after  some  days. 

The  blue- back's  nest  was  scarcely  a  foot  from 
the  ground,  in  a  little  bush  situated  in  a  low, 
dense  wood  of  hemlock  and  beech  and  maple  amid 
the  Catskills,  —  a  deep,  massive,  elaborate  struc- 
ture, in  which  the  sitting  bird  sank  till  her  beak 
and  tail  alone  were  visible  above  the  brim.  It  was 
a  misty,  chilly  day  when  I  chanced  to  find  the 
nest,  and  the  mother  bird  knew  instinctively  that 
it  was  not  prudent  to  leave  her  four  half- incubated 
eggs  uncovered  and  exposed  for  a  moment.  When 
I  sat  down  near  the  nest,  she  grew  very  uneasy, 
and,  after  trying  in  vain  to  decoy  me  away  by  sud- 
denly dropping  from  the  branches  and  dragging 
herself  over  the  ground  as  if  mortally  wounded,  she 


76  SIGNS  AND   SEASONS 

approached  and  timidly  and  half  doubtingly  covered 
her  eggs  within  two  yards  of  where  1  sat.  I  dis- 
turbed her  several  times,  to  note  her  ways.  There 
came  to  be  something  almost  appealing  in  her  looks 
and  manner,  and  she  would  keep  her  place  on  her 
precious  eggs  till  my  outstretched  hand  was  within 
a  few  feet  of  her.  Finally,  I  covered  the  cavity  of 
the  nest  with  a  dry  leaf.  This  she  did  not  remove 
with  her  beak,  but  thrust  her  head  deftly  beneath 
it  and  shook  it  off  upon  the  ground.  Many  of  her 
sympathizing  neighbors,  attracted  by  her  alarm  note, 
came  and  had  a  peep  at  the  intruder,  and  then  flew 
away,  but  the  male  bird  did  not  appear  upon  the 
scene.  The  final  history  of  this  nest  I  am  unable 
to  give,  as  I  did  not  again  visit  it  till  late  in  the 
season,  when,  of  course,  it  was  empty. 

Years  pass  without  my  finding  a  brown  thrasher's 
nest;  it  is  not  a  nest  you  are  likely  to  stumble 
upon  in  your  walk;  it  is  hidden  as  a  miser  hides 
his  gold,  and  watched  as  jealously.  The  male  pours 
out  his  rich  and  triumphant  song  from  the  tallest 
tree  he  can  find,  and  fairly  challenges  you  to  come 
and  look  for  his  treasures  in  his  vicinity.  But  you 
will  not  find  them  if  you  go.  The  nest  is  some- 
where on  the  outer  circle  of  his  song;  he  is  never 
so  imprudent  as  to  take  up  his  stand  very  near  it. 
The  artists  who  draw  those  cozy  little  pictures  of 
a  brooding  mother  bird,  with  the  male  perched  but 
a  yard  away  in  full  song,  do  not  copy  from  nature. 
The  thrasher's  nest  I  found  was  thirty  or  forty  rods 
from  the  point  where  the  male  was  ^vont  to  indulge 


THE  TRAGEDIES  OF  THE  NESTS      77 

in  his  brilliant  recitative.  It  was  in  an  open  field 
under  a  low  ground- juniper.  My  dog  disturbed 
the  sitting  bird  as  I  was  passing  near.  The  nest 
could  be  seen  only  by  lifting  up  and  parting  away 
the  branches.  All  the  arts  of  concealment  had 
been  carefully  studied.  It  was  the  last  place  you 
would  think  of  looking,  and,  if  you  did  look, 
nothing  was  visible  but  the  dense  green  circle  of 
the  low-spreading  juniper.  When  you  approached, 
the  bird  would  keep  her  place  till  you  had  begun 
to  stir  the  branches,  when  she  would  start  out,  and, 
just  skimming  the  ground,  make  a  bright  brown 
line  to  the  near  fence  and  bushes.  I  confidently 
expected  that  this  nest  would  escape  molestation, 
but  it  did  not.  Its  discovery  by  myself  and  dog 
probably  opened  the  door  for  ill-luck,  as  one  day, 
not  long  afterward,  when  I  peeped  in  upon  it,  it 
was  empty.  The  proud  song  of  the  male  had  ceased 
from  his  accustomed  tree,  and  the  pair  were  seen 
no  more  in  that  vicinity. 

The  phoebe-bird  is  a  wise  architect,  and  perhaps 
enjoys  as  great  an  immunity  from  danger,  both  in 
its  person  and  its  nest,  as  any  other  bird.  Its 
modest,  ashen-gray  suit  is  the  color  of  the  rocks 
where  it  builds,  and  the  moss  of  which  it  makes 
such  free  use  gives  to  its  nest  the  look  of  a  natural 
growth  or  accretion.  But  when  it  comes  into  the 
barn  or  under  the  shed  to  build,  as  it  so  frequently 
does,  the  moss  is  rather  out  of  place.  Doubtless 
in  time  the  bird  will  take  the  hint,  and  when  she 
builds  in  such  places  will  leave  the  moss  out.      I 


78  SIGNS  AND   SEASONS 

noted  but  two  nests  the  summer  I  am  speaking  of: 
one  in  a  barn  failed  of  issue,  on  account  of  the  rats, 
I  suspect,  though  the  little  owl  may  have  been  the 
depredator;  the  other,  in  the  woods,  sent  forth 
three  young.  This  latter  nest  was  most  charmingly 
and  ingeniously  placed.  I  discovered  it  while  in 
quest  of  pond-lilies,  in  a  long,  deep,  level  stretch 
of  water  in  the  woods.  A  large  tree  had  blown 
over  at  the  edge  of  the  water,  and  its  dense  mass  of 
upturned  roots,  with  the  black,  peaty  soil  filling 
the  interstices,  was  like  the  fragment  of  a  wall 
several  feet  high,  rising  from  the  edge  of  the  lan- 
guid current.  In  a  niche  in  this  earthy  wall,  and 
visible  and  accessible  only  from  the  water,  a  phoebe 
had  built  her  nest  and  reared  her  brood.  I  paddled 
my  boat  up  and  came  alongside  prepared  to  take  the 
family  aboard.  The  young,  nearly  ready  to  fly, 
were  quite  undisturbed  by  my  presence,  having 
probably  been  assured  that  no  danger  need  be  appre- 
hended from  that  side.  It  was  not  a  likely  place 
for  minks,  or  they  would  not  have  been  so  secure. 

I  noted  but  one  nest  of  the  wood  pewee,  and 
that,  too,  like  so  many  other  nests,  failed  of  issue. 
It  was  saddled  upon  a  small  dry  limb  of  a  plane- 
tree  that  stood  by  the  roadside,  about  forty  feet 
from  the  ground.  Every  day  for  nearly  a  week,  as 
I  passed  by,  I  saw  the  sitting  bird  upon  the  nest. 
Then  one  morning  she  was  not  in  her  place,  and 
on  examination  the  nest  proved  to  be  empty,  — 
robbed,  I  had  no  doubt,  by  the  red  squirrels,  as 
they  were  very  abundant  in  its  vicinity,   and   ap- 


THE   TRAGEDIES   OF  THE   NESTS  79 

peared  to  make  a  clean  sweep  of  every  nest.  The 
wood  pewee  builds  an  exquisite  nest,  shaped  and 
finished  as  if  cast  in  a  mould.  It  is  modeled  with- 
out and  within  with  equal  neatness  and  art,  like 
the  nest  of  the  hummingbird  and  the  little  gray 
gnatcatcher.  The  material  is  much  more  refractory 
than  that  used  by  either  of  these  birds,  being,  in 
the  present  case,  dry,  fine  cedar  twigs;  but  these 
were  bound  into  a  shape  as  rounded  and  compact  as 
could  be  moulded  out  of  the  most  plastic  material. 
Indeed,  the  nest  of  this  bird  looks  precisely  like 
a  large,  lichen-covered,  cup-shaped  excrescence  of 
the  limb  upon  which  it  is  placed.  And  the  bird, 
while  sitting,  seems  entirely  at  her  ease.  Most 
birds  seem  to  make  very  hard  work  of  incubation. 
It  is  a  kind  of  martyrdom  which  appears  to  tax  all 
their  powers  of  endurance.  They  have  such  a 
fixed,  rigid,  predetermined  look,  pressed  down  into 
the  nest  and  as  motionless  as  if  made  of  cast-iron. 
But  the  wood  pewee  is  an  exception.  She  is 
largely  visible  above  the  rim  of  the  nest.  Her  atti- 
tude is  easy  and  graceful;  she  moves  her  head  this 
way  and  that,  and  seems  to  take  note  of  whatever 
goes  on  about  her;  and  if  her  neighbor  were  to 
drop  in  for  a  little  social  chat,  she  could  doubtless 
do  her  part.  In  fact,  she  makes  light  and  easy 
work  of  what,  to  most  other  birds,  is  such  a  serious 
and  engrossing  matter.  If  it  does  not  look  like 
play  with  her,  it  at  least  looks  like  leisure  and 
t[uiet  contemplation. 

There  is  no  nest-builder  that  suff'ers  more  from 


80  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

crows   and   squirrels   and  other  enemies    than    the 
wood   thrush.      It   builds   as   openly   and    unsuspi- 
ciously as  if  it  thought  all  the  world  as  honest  as 
itself.      Its  favorite  place  is  the  fork  of  a  sapling, 
eight  or  ten  feet  from  the  ground,  where  it  falls  an 
easy  prey  to  every  nest-robber  that  comes  prowling 
through  the  woods  and  groves.      It  is  not  a  bird 
that  skulks  and  hides,  like  the  catbird,  the  brown 
thrasher,  the  chat,  or  the  chewink,  and  its  nest  is 
not   concealed  with   the  same  art   as   theirs.      Our 
thrushes  are  all  frank,    open-mannered  birds;   but 
the  veery  and  the  hermit  build  upon  the  ground, 
where   they  at   least   escape   the   crows,    owls,    and 
jays,  and  stand  a  better  chance  to  be  overlooked  by 
the  red  squirrel  and  weasel  also;  while  the  robin 
seeks  the  protection  of  dwellings  and  outbuildings. 
For   years  I  have  not  known  the  nest  of  a  wood 
thrush  to  succeed.      During  the  season  referred  to 
I  observed  but  two,  both  apparently  a  second  at- 
tempt, as  the  season  was  well  advanced,  and  both 
failures.      In   one   case,   the  nest  was   placed   in  a 
branch  that  an  apple-tree,  standing  near  a  dwelling, 
held   out   over   the    highway.      The    structure   was 
barely  ten  feet  above  the  middle  of  the  road,  and 
would  just  escape  a  passing  load  of  hay.      It  was 
made  conspicuous  by  the  use  of  a  large  fragment  of 
newspaper  in  its  foundation,  —  an  unsafe  material 
to  build  upon  in  most  cases.      Whatever  else   the 
press  may  guard,  this  particular  newspaper  did  not 
guard  this  nest  from  harm.      It  saw  the  egg   and 
probably    the    chick,    but    not    the    fledgeling.      A 


THE   TRAGEDIES   OF   THE   NESTS  81 

murderous  deed  was  committed  above  the  public 
highway,  but  whether  in  the  open  day. or  under 
cover  of  darkness  I  have  no  means  of  knowing. 
The  frisky  red  squirrel  was  doubtless  the  culprit. 
The  other  nest  was  in  a  maple  sapling,  within  a 
few  yards  of  the  little  rustic  summer-house  already 
referred  to.  The  first  attempt  of  the  season,  I 
suspect,  had  failed  in  a  more  secluded  place  under 
the  hill;  so  the  pair  had  come  up  nearer  the  house 
for  protection.  The  male  sang  in  the  trees  near  by 
for  several  days  before  I  chanced  to  see  the  nest. 
The  very  morning,  I  think,  it  was  finished,  I  saw  a 
red  squirrel  exploring  a  tree  but  a  few  yards  away ; 
he  probably  knew  what  the  singing  meant  as  well 
as  I  did.  I  did  not  see  the  inside  of  the  nest,  for 
it  was  almost  instantly  deserted,  the  female  having 
probably  laid  a  single  egg,  which  the  squirrel  had 
devoured. 

If  I  were  a  bird,  in  building  my  nest  I  should 
follow  the  example  of  the  bobolink,  placing  it  in 
the  midst  of  a  broad  meadow,  where  there  was  no 
spear  of  grass,  or  flower,  or  growth  unlike  another 
to  mark  its  site.  I  judge  that  the  bobolink  escapes 
the  dangers  to  which  I  have  adverted  as  few  or  no 
other  birds  do.  Unless  the  mowers  come  along  at 
an  earlier  date  than  she  has  anticipated,  that  is, 
before  July  1st,  or  a  skunk  goes  nosing  through 
the  grass,  which  is  unusual,  she  is  as  safe  as  bird 
well  can  be  in  the  great  open  of  nature.  She 
selects  the  most  monotonous  and  uniform  place  she 
can  find  amid  the  daisies  or  the  timothy  and  clover, 


82  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

and  places  her  simple  structure  upon  the  ground  in 
the  midst  of  it.      There  is  no  concealment,  except 
as  the  great  conceals  the  little,  as  the  desert  con- 
ceals the  pebble,  as  the  myriad  conceals  the  unit. 
You  may  find  the  nest  once,  if  your  course  chances 
to  lead  you  across  it,  and  your  eye  is  quick  enough 
to  note  the  silent  brown  bird  as  she  darts  swiftly 
away ;  but  step  three  paces  in  the  wrong  direction, 
and  your   search   will   probably   be   fruitless.      My 
friend  and  I  found  a  nest  by  accident  one  day,  and 
then  lost  it  again  one  minute  afterward.      I  moved 
away  a  few  yards  to  be  sure  of   the  mother  bird, 
charging   my   friend   not   to   stir   from    his    tracks. 
When  I  returned,  he  had  moved  two  paces,  he  said, 
(he  had  really  moved  four),    and  we  spent  a  half 
hour  stooping  over  the  daisies  and  the  buttercups, 
looking  for  the  lost  clew.      We  grew  desperate,  and 
fairly   felt   the   ground   over  with   our   hands,    but 
without  avail.      I  marked   the   spot  with   a   bush, 
and  came  the  next  day,  and,    with  the  bush  as  a 
centre,  moved  about  it  in  slowly  increasing  circles, 
covering,    I  thought,   nearly  every  inch  of   ground 
with  my  feet,  and  laying  hold  of  it  with  all  the 
visual  power   I   could   command,    till   my   patience 
was  exhausted,  and  I  gave  up,  baffled.      I  began  to 
doubt  the  ability  of  the  parent  birds  themselves  to 
find  it,  and  so  secreted  myself  and  watched.      After 
much  delay,  the  male  bird  appeared  with  food  in 
his  beak,  and,  satisfying  himself  that  the  coast  was 
clear,  dropped  into  the  grass  which  I  had  trodden 
down    in   my   search.      Fastening   my   eye   upon   a 


THE  TRAGEDIES  OF  THE  NESTS      83 

particular   meadow-lily,    I   walked   straight    to    the 
spot,  bent  down,  and  gazed  long  and  intently  into 
the  grass.      Finally  my  eye  separated  the  nest  and 
its    young    from   its  surroundings.      My    foot    had 
barely  missed  them  in  my  search,  but  by  how  much 
they  had  escaped  my  eye  I  could  not  tell.      Proba- 
bly not  by  distance  at  all,  but  simply  by  unrecogni- 
tion.      They    were    virtually   invisible.      The    dark 
gray  and  yellowish  brown  dry  grass  and  stubble  of 
the  meadow-bottom  were  exactly  copied  in  the  color 
of  the  half-fledged  young.      More  than  that,   they 
hugged  the  nest  so  closely  and  formed  such  a  com- 
pact  mass,    that   though  there  were  five  of   them, 
they  preserved  the  unit  of  expression,  —  no  single 
head  or  form  was  defined;  they  were  one,  and  that 
one  was  without  shape  or  color,  and  not  separable, 
except   by   closest    scrutiny,    from    the  one  of    the 
meadow-bottom.    That  nest  prospered,  as  bobolinks' 
nests  doubtless  generally  do;  for,    notwithstanding 
the  enormous  slaughter  of   the  birds   during   their 
fall  migrations  by    Southern  sportsmen,    the   bobo- 
link appears  to  hold  its  own,  and  its  music  does  not 
diminish  in  our  Northern  meadows. 

Birds  with  whom  the  struggle  for  life  is  the 
sharpest  seem  to  be  more  prolific  than  those  whose 
nest  and  young  are  exposed  to  fewer  dangers.  The 
robin,  the  sparrow,  the  pewee,  etc.,  will  rear,  or 
make  the  attempt  to  rear,  two  and  sometimes  three 
broods  in  a  season;  but  the  bobolink,  the  oriole, 
the  kingbird,  the  goldfinch,  the  cedar-bird,  the 
birds  of  prey,  and  the  woodpeckers,  that  build  in 


84  SIGNS  AND   SEASONS 

safe  retreats  in  the  trunks  of  trees,  have  usually  hut 
a  single  hrood.  If  the  boholink  reared  two  broods, 
our  meadows  would  swarm  with  them. 

I  noted  three  nests  of  the  cedar-bird  in  August 
in  a  single  orchard,  all  productive,  but  each  with 
one  or  more  unfruitful  eggs  in  it.  The  cedar-bird 
is  the  most  silent  of  our  birds,  having  but  a  single 
fine  note,  so  far  as  I  have  observed,  but  its  manners 
are  very  expressive  at  times.  No  bird  known  to 
me  is  capable  of  expressing  so  much  silent  alarm 
while  on  the  nest  as  this  bird.  As  you  ascend  the 
tree  and  draw  near  it,  it  depresses  its  plumage  and 
crest,  stretches  up  its  neck,  and  becomes  the  very 
picture  of  fear.  Other  birds,  under  like  circum- 
stances, hardly  change  their  expression  at  all  till 
they  launch  into  the  air,  when  by  their  voice  they 
express  anger  rather  than  alarm. 

I  have  referred  to  the  red  squirrel  as  a  destroyer 
of  the  eggs  and  young  of  birds.  I  think  the  mis- 
chief it  does  in  this  respect  can  hardly  be  overesti- 
mated. Nearly  all  birds  look  upon  it  as  their 
enemy,  and  attack  and  annoy  it  when  it  appears 
near  their  breeding  haunts.  Thus,  I  have  seen  the 
pewee,  the  cuckoo,  the  robin,  and  the  wood  thrush 
pursuing  it  with  angry  voice  and  gestures.  A 
friend  of  mine  saw  a  pair  of  robins  attack  one  in  the 
top  of  a  tall  tree  so  vigorously  that  they  caused  it 
to  lose  its  hold,  when  it  fell  to  the  ground,  and 
was  so  stunned  by  the  blow  as  to  allow  him  to  pick 
it  up.  If  you  wish  the  birds  to  breed  and  thrive 
in  your  orchard  and  groves,  kill  every  red  squirrel 


THE   TRAGEDIES   OF  THE   NESTS  85 

that  infests  the  place;  kill  every  weasel  also.      The 
weasel  is  a  subtle  and  arch  enemy  of  the  birds.      It 
climbs  trees  and  explores  them  with  great  ease  and 
mmbleness.      I  have  seen  it  do  so  on  several  occa- 
sions.      One  day  my  attention  was  arrested  by  the 
angry  notes  of  a  pair  of  brown  thrashers  that  were 
flitting  from  bush  to  bush  along  an  old  stone  row 
in  a  remote  field.      Presently  I   saw  what   it  was 
that    excited    them,  _  three  large    red    weasels,   or 
ermines,  coming  along  the  stone  wall,  and  leisurely 
and  half  playfully  exploring  every  tree  that  stood 
near  it.      They  had  probably  robbed  the  thrashers. 
They  would  go  up  the  trees  with  great  ease,  and 
glide    serpent-like    out    upon    the    main    branches. 
When  they  descended  the  tree  they  were  unable  to 
come  straight  down,  like  a  squirrel,  but  went  around 
it  spirally.      How   boldly  they  thrust   their   heads 
out  of  the  wall,  and  eyed  me  and  sniffed  me  as  I 
drew  near,  —  their  round,   thin  ears,   their  promi- 
nent,  glistening,    bead-like  eyes,   and  the   curving, 
snake-like  motions  of  the  head  and  neck  being  very 
noticeable.      They    looked    like    blood-suckers    and 
egg-suckers.      They  suggested  something  extremely 
remorseless  and  cruel.      One  could  understand  the 
alarm  of  the  rats  when  they  discover  one  of  these 
fearless,  subtle,  and  circumventing  creatures  thread- 
ing their  holes.      To  flee  must  be   like   trying   to 
escape  death  itself.      I  was  one  day  standing  in  the 
woods  upon  a  flat  stone,  in  what  at  certain  seasons 
was  the  bed  of  a  stream,  when  one  of  these  weasels 


86  SIGNS    AND   SEASONS 

came  undulating  along  and  ran  under  the  stone 
upon  which  I  was  standing.  As  I  remained  mo- 
tionless, he  thrust  out  his  wedge-shaped  head,  and 
turned  it  back  above  the  stone  as  if  half  in  mind 
to  seize  my  foot;  then  he  drew  back,  and  presently 
went  his  way.  These  weasels  often  hunt  in  packs 
like  the  British  stoat.  When  I  was  a  boy,  my 
father  one  day  armed  me  with  an  old  musket  and 
sent  me  to  shoot  chipmunks  around  the  corn. 
While  watching  the  squirrels,  a  troop  of  weasels 
tried  to  cross  a  bar- way  where  I  sat,  and  were  so 
bent  on  doing  it  that  I  fired  at  them,  boy-like, 
simply  to  thwart  their  purpose.  One  of  the  weasels 
was  disabled  by  my  shot,  but  the  troop  was  not 
discouraged,  and,  after  making  several  feints  to 
cross,  one  of  them  seized  the  wounded  one  and  bore 
it  over,  and  the  pack  disappeared  in  the  wall  on 
the  other  side. 

Let  me  conclude  this  chapter  with  two  or  three 
more  notes  about  this  alert  enemy  of  the  birds  and 
lesser  animals,  the  weasel. 

A  farmer  one  day  heard  a  queer  growling  sound 
in  the  grass;  on  approaching  the  spot  he  saw  two 
weasels  contending  over  a  mouse ;  both  had  hold  of 
the  mouse,  pulling  in  opposite  directions,  and  they 
were  so  absorbed  in  the  struggle  that  the  farmer 
cautiously  put  his  hands  down  and  grabbed  them 
both  by  the  back  of  the  neck.  He  put  them  in  a 
cage,  and  offered  them  bread  and  other  food.  This 
they  refused  to  eat,  but  in  a  few  days  one  of  them 


THE   TRAGEDIES   OF   THE   NESTS  87 

had  eaten  the  other  up,   picking  his   bones   clean, 
and  leaving  nothing  but  the  skeleton. 

The  same  farmer  was  one  day  in  his  cellar  when 
two  rats  came  out  of  a  hole  near  him  in  great  haste, 
and  ran  up  the  cellar  wall  and  along  its  top  till 
they  came  to  a  floor  timber  that  stopped  their  prog- 
ress, when  they  turned  at  bay,  and  looked  excitedly 
back  along  the  course  they  had  come.  In  a  moment 
a  weasel,  evidently  in  hot  pursuit  of  them,  came 
out  of  the  hole,  and,  seeing  the  farmer,  checked  his 
course  and  darted  back.  The  rats  had  doubtless 
turned  to  give  him  fight,  and  would  probably  have 
been  a  match  for  him. 

The  weasel  seems  to  track  its  game  by  scent.  A 
hunter  of  my  acquaintance  was  one  day  sitting  in 
the  woods,  when  he  saw  a  red  squirrel  run  with 
great  speed  up  a  tree  near  him,  and  out  upon  a  long 
branch,  from  which  he  leaped  to  some  rocks,  and 
disappeared  beneath  them.  In  a  moment  a  weasel 
came  in  full  course  upon  his  trail,  ran  up  the  tree, 
then  out  along  the  branch,  from  the  end  of  which 
he  leaped  to  the  rocks  as  the  squirrel  did,  and 
plunged  beneath  them. 

Doubtless  the  squirrel  fell  a  prey  to  him.  The 
squirrel's  best  game  would  have  been  to  have  kept 
to  the  higher  treetops,  where  he  could  easily  have 
distanced  the  weasel.  But  beneath  the  rocks  he 
stood  a  very  poor  chance.  I  have  often  wondered 
what  keeps  such  an  animal  as  the  weasel  in  check, 
for  they  are  quite  rare.      They  never  need  go  hun- 


88  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

gry,  for  rats  and  squirrels  and  mice  and  birds  are 
everywhere.  They  probably  do  not  fall  a  prey  to 
any  other  animal,  and  very  rarely  to  man.  But 
the  circumstances  or  agencies  that  check  the  increase 
of  any  species  of  animal  or  bird  are,  as  Darwin 
says,  very  obscure  and  but  little  known. 


A   SNOW-STOKM 

rriHAT  is   a   striking   line  with  which   Emerson 

-'-    opens  his  beautiful  poem  of  the  Snow-Storm :  — 

"  Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow,  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight." 

One  seems  to  see  the  clouds  puffing  their  cheeks  as 
they  sound  the  charge  of  their  white  legions.  But 
the  line  is  more  accurately  descriptive  of  a  rain- 
storm, as,  in  both  summer  and  winter,  rain  is 
usually  preceded  by  wind.  Homer,  describing  a 
snow-storm  in  his  time,  says :  — 

"  The  winds  are  lulled." 
The  preparations  of  a  snow-storm  are,  as  a  rule, 
gentle  and  quiet;  a  marked  hush  pervades  both  the 
earth  and  the  sky.  The  movements  of  the  celestial 
forces  are  muffled,  as  if  the  snow  already  paved  the 
way  of  their  coming.  There  is  no  uproar,  no  clash- 
ing of  arms,  no  blowing  of  wind  trumpets.  These 
soft,  feathery,  exquisite  crystals  are  formed  as  if  in 
the  silence  and  privacy  of  the  inner  cloud-chambers. 
Rude  winds  would  break  the  spell  and  mar  the 
process.  The  clouds  are  smoother,  and  slower  in 
their  movements,    with  less   definite  outlines   than 


90  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

those   which    bring    rain.      In    fact,    everything    is 
prophetic  of  the  gentle  and  noiseless  meteor  that  is 
approaching,  and  of  the  stillness  that  is  to  succeed 
it,  when  "all  the  batteries  of  sound  are  spiked,"  as 
Lowell  says,   and   "we  see  the  movements  of  life 
as  a  deaf  man  sees  it,  —  a  mere  wraith  of  the  clamor- 
ous existence  that  inflicts  itself  on  our  ears  when 
the   ground   is   bare."     After   the    storm    is    fairly 
launched,  the  winds  not  infrequently  awake,   and, 
seeing  their  opportunity,    pipe  the  flakes  a   lively 
dance.      I  am  speaking   now  of   the   typical,    full- 
born   midwinter  storm   that  comes  to  us  from  the 
North  or  N.   N.   E.,  and  that  piles  the  landscape 
knee-deep  with  snow.      Such  a  storm  once  came  to 
us  the  last  day  of  January,  —  the  master- storm  of 
the  winter.      Previous   to   that   date,    we   had   had 
but   light   snow.      The   spruces   had    been    able    to 
catch  it  all  upon  their  arms,  and  keep  a  circle  of 
bare  ground  beneath  them  where  the  birds  scratched. 
But   the   day  following   this  fall,    they  stood  with 
their    lower    branches    completely    buried.     If    the 
Old  Man  of  the  North  had  but  sent  us  his  couriers 
and  errand-boys  before,  the  old  graybeard  appeared 
himself  at  our  doors  on  this  occasion,  and  we  were 
all  his  subjects.      His  flag  was  upon  every  tree  and 
roof,  his  seal  upon  every  door  and  window,  and  his 
embargo  upon  every  path  and  highway.     He  slipped 
down    upon    us,    too,    under   the    cover   of    such   a 
bright,  seraphic  day,  — a  day  that  disarmed  suspi- 
cion with  all  but  the  wise  ones,  a  day  without  a 
cloud  or  a  film,   a  gentle  breeze  from  the  west,  a 


A   SNOW-STORM  91 

dry,  bracing  air,  a  blazing  sun  that  brought  out  the 
bare  ground  under  the  lee  of  the  fences  and  farm- 
buildings,  and  at  night  a  spotless  moon  near  her 
full.  The  next  morning  the  sky  reddened  in  the 
east,  then  became  gray,  heavy,  and  silent.  A  seam- 
less cloud  covered  it.  The  smoke  from  the  chim- 
neys went  up  with  a  barely  perceptible  slant  toward 
the  north.  In  the  forenoon  the  cedar- birds,  purple 
finches,  yellowbirds,  nuthatches,  bluebirds,  were 
in  flocks  or  in  couples  and  trios  about  the  trees, 
more  or  less  noisy  and  loquacious.  About  noon  a 
thin  white  veil  began  to  blur  the  distant  southern 
mountains.  It  was  like  a  white  dream  slowly  de- 
scending upon  them.  The  first  flake  or  flakelet 
that  reached  me  was  a  mere  white  speck  that  came 
idly  circling  and  eddying  to  the  ground.  I  could 
not  see  it  after  it  alighted.  It  might  have  been  a 
scale  from  the  feather  of  some  passing  bird,  or  a 
larger  mote  in  the  air  that  the  stillness  was  allow- 
ing to  settle.  Yet  it  was  the  altogether  inaudible 
and  infinitesimal  trumpeter  that  announced  the 
coming  storm,  the  grain  of  sand  that  heralded  the 
desert.  Presently  another  fell,  then  another;  the 
white  mist  was  creeping  up  the  river  valley.  How 
slowly  and  loiteringly  it  came,  and  how  microscopic 
its  first  siftings ! 

This  mill  is  bolting  its  flour  very  fine,  you  think. 
But  wait  a  little;  it  gets  coarser  by  and  by;  you 
begin  to  see  the  flakes;  they  increase  in  numbers 
and  in  size,  and  before  one  o'clock  it  is  snowing 
steadily.      The  flakes  come  straight   down,   but   in 


92  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

a  half  hour  they  have  a  marked  slant  toward  the 
north ;  the  wind  is  taking  a  hand  in  the  game.  By 
mid-afternoon  the  storm  is  coming  in  regular  pulse- 
beats  or  in  vertical  waves.  The  wind  is  not  strong, 
but  seems  steady;  the  pines  hum,  yet  there  is  a 
sort  of  rhythmic  throb  in  the  meteor;  the  air 
toward  the  wind  looks  ribbed  with  steady-moving 
vertical  waves  of  snow.  The  impulses  travel  along 
like  undulations  in  a  vast  suspended  white  curtain, 
imparted  by  some  invisible  hand  there  in  the  north- 
east. As  the  day  declines  the  storm  waxes,  the 
wind  increases,  the  snow-fall  thickens,  and 

"the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  inclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm," 

a  privacy  which  you  feel  outside  as  well  as  in. 
Out-of-doors  you  seem  in  a  vast  tent  of  snow ;  the 
distance  is  shut  out,  near-by  objects  are  hidden; 
there  are  white  curtains  above  you  and  white 
screens  about  you,  and  you  feel  housed  and  secluded 
in  storm.  Your  friend  leaves  your  door,  and  he  is 
wrapped  away  in  white  obscurity,  caught  up  in  a 
cloud,  and  his  footsteps  are  obliterated.  Travelers 
meet  on  the  road,  and  do  not  see  or  hear  each  other 
till  they  are  face  to  face.  The  passing  train,  half 
a  mile  away,  gives  forth  a  mere  wraith  of  sound. 
Its  whistle  is  deadened  as  in  a  dense  wood. 

Still  the  storm  rose.  At  five  o'clock  I  went 
forth  to  face  it  in  a  two-mile  walk.  It  was  exhila- 
rating in  the  extreme.  The  snow  was  lighter  than 
chaff.      It  had  been  dried  in  the  Arctic  ovens  to 


A    SNOW-STORM  93 

the  last  degree.  The  foot  sped  through  it  without 
hindrance.  I  fancied  the  grouse  and  quails  quietly 
sitting  down  in  the  open  places,  and  letting  it  drift 
over  them.  With  head  under  wing,  and  wing 
snugly  folded,  they  would  be  softly  and  tenderly 
buried  in  a  few  moments.  The  mice  and  the  squir- 
rels were  in  their  dens,  but  I  fancied  the  fox  asleep 
upon  some  rock  or  log,  and  allowing  the  flakes  to 
cover  him.  The  hare  in  her  form,  too,  was  being 
warmly  sepulchred  with  the  rest.  I  thought  of  the 
young  cattle  and  the  sheep  huddled  together  on  the 
lee  side  of  a  haystack  in  some  remote  field,  all  en- 
veloped in  mantles  of  white. 

"  I  thought  me  on  the  curie  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 

O'  wintry  war, 
Or  thro'  the  drift,  deep-lairing  sprattle, 

Beneath  a  scaur. 

"  Ilk  happing  bird,  wee  helpless  thing, 
That  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee  ? 
Where  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chittering  wing, 
And  close  thy  ee  ?  " 

As  I  passed  the  creek,  I  noticed  the  white  woolly 
masses  that  filled  the  water.  It  was  as  if  somebody 
upstream  had  been  washing  his  sheep  and  the  water 
had  carried  away  all  the  wool,  and  I  thought  of  the 
Psalmist's  phrase,  "He  giveth  snow  like  wool." 
On  the  river  a  heavy  fall  of  snow  simulates  a  thin 
layer  of  cotton  batting.  The  tide  drifts  it  along, 
and,  where  it  meets  with  an  obstruction  alongshore, 
it  folds  up  and  becomes  wrinkled  or  convoluted  like 


94  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

a  fabric,  or  like  cotton  sheeting.  Attempt  to  row 
a  boat  through  it,  and  it  seems  indeed  like  cotton 
or  wool,  every  fibre  of  which  resists  your  progress. 

As  the  sun  went  down  and  darkness  fell,  the 
storm  impulse  reached  its  full.  It  became  a  wild 
conflagration  of  wind  and  snow ;  the  world  was 
wrapt  in  frost  flame;  it  enveloped  one,  and  pene- 
trated his  lungs  and  caught  away  his  breath  like  a 
blast  from  a  burning  city.  How  it  whipped  around 
and  under  every  cover  and  searched  out  every  crack 
and  crevice,  sifting  under  the  shingles  in  the  attic, 
darting  its  white  tongue  under  the  kitchen  door, 
puffing  its  breath  down  the  chimney,  roaring  through 
the  woods,  stalking  like  a  sheeted  ghost  across  the 
hills,  bending  in  white  and  ever-changing  forms 
above  the  fences,  sweeping  across  the  plains,  whirl- 
ing in  eddies  behind  the  buildings,  or  leaping  spite- 
fully up  their  walls,  —  in  short,  taking  the  world 
entirely  to  itself,  and  giving  a  loose  rein  to  its 
desire. 

But  in  the  morning,  behold!  the  world  was  not 
consumed;  it  was  not  the  besom  of  destruction, 
after  all,  but  the  gentle  hand  of  mercy.  How 
deeply  and  warmly  and  spotlessly  Earth's  nakedness 
is  clothed!  —  the  "wool"  of  the  Psalmist  nearly 
two  feet  deep.  And  as  far  as  warmth  and  protec- 
tion are  concerned,  there  is  a  good  deal  of  the 
virtue  of  wool  in  such  a  snow-fall.  How  it  pro- 
tects the  grass,  the  plants,  the  roots  of  the  trees, 
and  the  worms,  insects,  and  smaller  animals  in  the 
ground !     It  is  a  veritable  fleece,  beneath  which  the 


A   SNOW-STORM  95 

shivering  earth  ("the  frozen  hills  ached  with  pain," 

says  one  of  our  young  poets)  is  restored  to  warmth. 

When  the   temperature  of  the  air  is   at  zero,    the 

thermometer,    placed  at  the   surface  of  the  ground 

beneath  a  foot  and  a  half  of  snow,  would  probably 

indicate  but  a  few  degrees  below  freezing;  the  snow 

is   rendered  such  a  perfect   non-conductor   of   heat 

mainly   by   reason   of   the    quantity   of   air   that   is 

caught  and  retained   between   the   crystals.      Then 

how,  like  a  fleece  of  wool,  it  rounds  and  fills  out 

the    landscape,    and    makes    the    leanest    and   most 

angular  field  look  smooth ! 

The  day  dawned,  and  continued  as  innocent  and 
fair  as  the  day  which  had  preceded,  —  two  mountain- 
peaks  of  sky  and  sun,    with  their  valley  of  cloud 
and   snow  between.      Walk   to   the   nearest    spring 
run  on  such  a  morning,  and  you  can  see  the  Colo- 
rado  valley  and    the  great  caiions  of  the  West  in 
miniature,    carved   in   alabaster.      In   the   midst  of 
the   plain   of   snow   lie   these  chasms;   the  vertical 
walls,    the  bold  headlands,    the  turrets   and   spires 
and  obelisks,  the  rounded  and  towering  capes,  the 
carved  and  buttressed  precipices,  the  branch  valleys 
and  caiions,   and  the  winding  and  tortuous  course 
of   the   main   channel   are  all   here,  —  all   that   the 
Yosemite  or  Yellowstone  have  to  show,  except  the 
terraces   and   the   cascades.      Sometimes  my   canon 
is  bridged,  and  one's  fancy   runs   nimbly  across  a 
vast  arch  of  Parian  marble,  and  that  makes  up  for 
the  falls  and  the  terraces.      Where  the  ground  is 
marshy,  I  come  upon  a  pretty  and  vivid  illustration 


96  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

of  what  I  have  read  and  been  told  of  the  Florida 
formation.  This  white  and  brittle  limestone  is 
undermined  by  water.  Here  are  the  dimples  and 
depressions,  the  sinks  and  the  wells,  the  springs 
and  the  lakes.  Some  places  a  mouse  might  break 
through  the  surface  and  reveal  the  water  far  be- 
neath, or  the  snow  gives  way  of  its  own  weight, 
and  you  have  a  minute  Florida  well,  with  the  trun- 
cated cone-shape  and  all.  The  arched  and  subter- 
ranean pools  and  passages  are  there  likewise. 

But  there  is  a  more  beautiful  and  fundamental 
geology  than  this  in  the  snow-storm:  we  are  admit- 
ted into  Nature's  oldest  laboratory,  and  see  the 
working  of  the  law  by  which  the  foundations  of  the 
material  universe  were  laid,  —  the  law  or  mystery 
of  crystallization.  The  earth  is  built  upon  crystals ; 
the  granite  rock  is  only  a  denser  and  more  compact 
snow,  or  a  kind  of  ice  that  was  vapor  once  and  may 
be  vapor  again.  "Every  stone  is  nothing  else  but 
a  congealed  lump  of  frozen  earth,"  says  Plutarch. 
By  cold  and  pressure  air  can  be  liquefied,  perhaps 
solidified.  A  little  more  time,  a  little  more  heat, 
and  the  hills  are  but  April  snow-banks.  Nature  has 
but  two  forms,  the  cell  and  the  crystal,  —  the  crys- 
tal first,  the  cell  last.  All  organic  nature  is  built 
up  of  the  cell;  all  inorganic,  of  the  crystal.  Cell 
upon  cell  rises  the  vegetable,  rises  the  animal ;  crys- 
tal wedded  to  and  compacted  with  crystal  stretches 
the  earth  beneath  them.  See  in  the  falling  snow 
the  old  cooling  and  precipitation,  and  the  shooting, 
radiating  forms  that  are  the  architects  of  planet  and 
globe. 


A   SNOW-STORM  97 

We  love  the  sight  of  the  brown  and  ruddy  earth ; 
it  is  the  color  of  life,  while  a  snow-covered  plain  is 
the  face  of  death;  yet  snow  is  but  the  mask  of  the 
life-giving  rain ;  it,  too,  is  the  friend  of  man,  —  the 
tender,  sculpturesque,  immaculate,  warming,  fertil- 
izing snow. 


VI 

A   TASTE   OF  MAINE    BIRCH 

rpHE  traveler  and  camper-out  in  Maine,   unless 
he  penetrates  its  more  northern  portions,  has 
less  reason  to  remember  it  as  a  pine-tree  State  than 
a   birch-tree   State.      The   white-pine    forests    have 
melted  away  like  snow  in  the  spring  and  gone  down- 
stream, leaving  only  patches  here  and  there  in  the 
more  remote  and  inaccessible  parts.      The   portion 
of  the  State  I  saw  — the  valley  of  the  Kennebec 
and  the  woods  about  Moxie  Lake  —  had  been  shorn 
of  its  pine  timber  more  than  forty  years  before,  and 
is  now  covered  with  a  thick  growth  of  spruce  and 
cedar  and  various  deciduous  trees.      But  the  birch 
abounds.     Indeed,  when  the  pine  goes  out  the  birch 
comes  in;    the  race  of   men   succeeds   the   race   of 
giants.      This  tree  has  great   stay-at-home  virtues. 
Let  the  sombre,  aspiring,  mysterious  pine  go;  the 
birch  has  humble,  every-day  uses.      In  Maine,  the 
paper  or  canoe  birch  is  turned  to  more  account  than 
any  other  tree.      I  read  in  Gibbon  that  the  natives 
of  ancient   Assyria   used   to   celebrate   in   verse   or 
prose  the  three  hundred  and  sixty  uses   to  which 
the  various  parts  and  products  of  the  palm-tree  were 
applied.      The  Maine  birch  is  turned  to  so  many 


100  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

accounts  that  it  may  well  be  called  the  palm  of  this 
region.  Uncle  Nathan,  our  guide,  said  it  was 
made  especially  for  the  camper-out;  yes,  and  for 
the  woodman  and  frontiersman  generally.  It  is  a 
magazine,  a  furnishing  store  set  up  in  the  wilder- 
ness, whose  goods  are  free  to  every  comer.  The 
whole  equipment  of  the  camp  lies  folded  in  it,  and 
comes  forth  at  the  beck  of  the  woodman's  axe: 
tent,  water-proof  roof,  boat,  camp  utensils,  buckets, 
cups,  2:)lates,  spoons,  napkins,  table-cloths,  paper 
for  letters  or  your  journal,  torches,  candles,  kind- 
ling-wood, and  fuel.  The  canoe  birch  yields  you 
its  vestments  with  the  utmost  liberality.  Ask  for 
its  coat,  and  it  gives  you  its  waistcoat  also.  Its 
bark  seems  wrapped  about  it  layer  upon  layer,  and 
comes  off  with  great  ease.  We  saw  many  rude 
structures  and  cabins  shingled  and  sided  with  it, 
and  haystacks  capped  with  it.  Near  a  maple- sugar 
camp  there  was  a  large  pile  of  birch- bark  sap- buck- 
ets, —  each  bucket  made  of  a  piece  of  bark  about 
a  yard  square,  folded  up  as  the  tinman  folds  up  a 
sheet  of  tin  to  make  a  square  vessel,  the  corners 
bent  around  against  the  sides  and  held  by  a  wooden 
pin.  When,  one  day,  we  were  overtaken  by  a 
shower  in  traveling  through  the  woods,  our  guide 
quickly  stripped  large  sheets  of  the  bark  from  a 
near  tree,  and  we  had  each  a  perfect  umbrella  as 
by  magic.  W^hen  the  rain  was  over,  and  we  moved 
on,  I  wrapped  mine  about  me  like  a  large  leather 
apron,  and  it  shielded  my  clothes  from  the  wet 
bushes.      When  we  came  to  a  spring.  Uncle  Nathan 


A    TASTE    OF   MAINE   BIRCH  101 

would  have  a  birch-bark  cup  ready  before  any  of  us 
could  get  a  tin  one  out  of  his  knapsack,  and  I  think 
water  never  tasted  so  sweet  as  from  one  of  these 
bark  cups.  It  is  exactly  the  thing.  It  just  fits 
the  mouth,  and  it  seems  to  give  new  virtues  to  the 
water.  It  makes  me  thirsty  now  when  I  think  of 
it.  In  our  camp  at  Moxie,  we  made  a  large  birch- 
bark  box  to  keep  the  butter  in;  and  the  butter  in 
this  box,  covered  with  some  leafy  boughs,  I  think 
improved  in  flavor  day  by  day.  Maine  butter  needs 
something  to  mollify  and  sweeten  it  a  little,  and  I 
think  birch  bark  will  do  it.  In  camp  Uncle  Nathan 
often  drank  his  tea  and  coffee  from  a  bark  cup;  the 
china  closet  in  the  birch- tree  was  always  handy, 
and  our  vulgar  tinware  was  generally  a  good  deal 
mixed,  and  the  kitchen  maid  not  at  all  particular 
about  dish- washing.  We  all  tried  the  oatmeal  with 
the  maple  syrup  in  one  of  these  dishes,  and  the 
stewed  mountain  cranberries,  using  a  birch- bark 
spoon,  and  never  found  service  better.  Uncle  Na- 
than declared  he  could  boil  potatoes  in  a  bark  ket- 
tle, and  I  did  not  doubt  him.  Instead  of  sending 
our  soiled  napkins  and  table-spreads  to  the  wash, 
we  rolled  them  up  into  candles  and  torches,  and 
drew  daily  upon  our  stores  in  the  forest  for  new 
ones. 

But  the  great  triumph  of  the  birch  is,  of  course, 
the  bark  canoe.  When  Uncle  Nathan  took  us  out 
under  his  little  woodshed,  and  showed  us,  or  rather 
modestly  permitted  us  to  see,  his  nearly  finished 
canoe,  it  was  like  a  first  glimpse  of  some  new  and 


102  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

unknown  genius  of  the  woods  or  streams.      It  sat 
there  on  the  chips  and  shavings  and  fragments  of 
bark  like  some  shy,  delicate  creature  just  emerged 
from  its  hiding-place,  or  like  some  wild  flower  just 
opened.      It  was  the  first  boat  of  the  kind  I  had 
ever  seen,  and  it  filled  my  eye  completely.      AVliat 
woodcraft  it  indicated,  and  what  a  wild,   free  life, 
sylvan   life,    it   promised!     It    had    such    a    fresh, 
aboriginal  look  as  I  had  never  before  seen  in  any 
kind    of    handiwork.      Its    clear,    yellow-red    color 
would  have  become  the  cheek  of  an  Indian  maiden. 
Then  its  supple  curves  and  swells,  its  sinewy  stays 
and    thwarts,    its   bow-like   contour,    its   tomahawk 
stem  and  stern  rising  quickly  and  sharply  from  its 
frame,  were  all  vividly  suggestive  of  the  race  from 
which  it  came.      An  old  Indian  had  taught  Uncle 
Nathan  the  art,  and  the  soul  of  the  ideal  red  man 
looked  out  of  the  boat  before  us.      Uncle  Nathan 
had  spent  two  days  ranging  the  mountains  looking 
for  a  suitable  tree,  and  had  worked  nearly  a  week 
on  the  craft.      It  was  twelve  feet  long,  and  w^ould 
seat  and  carry  five  men  nicely.      Three  trees  con- 
tribute to  the  making  of  a  canoe  beside  the  birch, 
namely,   the  white  cedar  for  ribs  and  lining,    the 
spruce  for  roots  and  fibres  to  sew  its  joints  and  bind 
its  frame,  and  the  pine  for  pitch  or  rosin  to  stop 
its  seams  and  cracks.      It  is  hand-made  and  home- 
made,   or   rather   wood-made,    in   a   sense   that    no 
other  craft  is,  except  a  dugout,    and  it  suggests  a^^. 
taste  and  a  refinement  that  few^  products  of  civiliza- 
tion realize.      The  design  of  a  savage,  it  yet  looks 


A   TASTE   OF  MAINE   BIRCH  103 

like  the  thought  of  a  poet,  and  its  grace  and  fitness 
haunt  the  imagination.  I  suppose  its  production 
was  the  inevitable  result  of  the  Indian's  wants  and 
surroundings,  but  that  does  not  detract  from  its 
beauty.  It  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  fairest  flowers 
the  thorny  plant  of  necessity  ever  bore.  Our 
canoe,  as  I  have  intimated,  was  not  yet  finished 
when  we  first  saw  it,  nor  yet  when  we  took  it  up, 
with  its  architect,  upon  our  metaphorical  backs  and 
bore  it  to  the  woods.  It  lacked  part  of  its  cedar 
lining  and  the  rosin  upon  its  joints,  and  these  were 
added  after  we  reached  our  destination. 

Though  we  were  not  indebted  to  the  birch-tree 
for  our  guide.  Uncle  Nathan,  as  he  was  known  in 
all  that  country,  yet  he  matched  well  these  woodsy 
products  and  conveniences.  The  birch-tree  had 
given  him  a  large  part  of  his  tuition,  and,  kneeling 
in  his  canoe  and  making  it  shoot  noiselessly  over 
the  water  with  that  subtle  yet  indescribably  expres- 
sive and  athletic  play  of  the  muscles  of  the  back 
and  shoulders,  the  boat  and  the  man  seemed  born 
of  the  same  spirit.  He  had  been  a  hunter  and 
trapper  for  over  forty  years ;  he  had  grown  gray  in 
the  woods,  had  ripened  and  matured  there,  and 
everything  about  him  was  as  if  the  spirit  of  the 
woods  had  had  the  ordering  of  it;  his  whole  make- 
up was  in  a  minor  and  subdued  key,  like  the  moss 
and  the  lichens,  or  like  the  protective  coloring  of 
the  game,  —  everything  but  his  quick  sense  and 
penetrative  glance.  He  was  as  gentle  and  modest 
as  a  girl ;  his  sensibilities  were  like  plants  that  grow 


104  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

in  the  shade.  The  woods  and  the  solitudes  had 
touched  him  with  their  own  softening  and  refining 
influence;  had,  indeed,  shed  upon  his  soil  of  life  a 
rich,  deep  leaf  mould  that  was  delightful,  and  that 
nursed,  half  concealed,  the  tenderest  and  wildest 
growths.  There  was  grit  enough  back  of  and  be- 
neath it  all,  but  he  presented  none  of  the  rough  and 
repelling  traits  of  character  of  the  conventional 
backwoodsman.  In  the  spring  he  was  a  driver  of 
logs  on  the  Kennebec,  usually  having  charge  of  a 
large  gang  of  men;  in  the  winter  he  was  a  solitary 
trapper  and  hunter  in  the  forests. 

Our  first  glimpse  of  Maine  waters  was  Pleasant 
Pond,  which  we  found  by  following  a  white,  rapid, 
musical  stream  from  the  Kennebec  three  miles  back 
into  the  mountains.  Maine  waters  are  for  the  most 
part  dark-complexioned,  Indian-colored  streams,  but 
Pleasant  Pond  is  a  pale-face  among  them  both  in 
name  and  nature.  It  is  the  only  strictly  silver 
lake  I  ever  saw.  Its  waters  seem  almost  artificially 
white  and  brilliant,  though  of  remarkable  transpar- 
ency. I  think  I  detected  minute  shining  motes 
held  in  suspension  in  it.  As  for  the  trout,  they  are 
veritable  bars  of  silver  until  you  have  cut  their 
flesh,  when  they  are  the  reddest  of  gold.  They 
have  no  crimson  or  other  spots,  and  the  straight 
lateral  line  is  but  a  faint  pencil-mark.  They  ap- 
peared to  be  a  species  of  lake  trout  peculiar  to  these 
waters,  uniformly  from  ten  to  twelve  inches  in 
length.  And  these  beautiful  fish,  at  the  time  of 
our  visit  (last  of  August)  at  least,  were  to  be  taken 


A   TASTE   OF   MAINE   BIRCH  105 

only  in  deep  water  upon  a  hook  baited  with  salt 
pork.  And  then  you  needed  a  letter  of  introduc- 
tion to  them.  They  were  not  to  be  tempted  or 
cajoled  by  strangers.  We  did  not  succeed  in  rais- 
ing a  fish,  although  instructed  how  it  was  to  be 
done,  until  one  of  the  natives,  a  young  and  oblig- 
ing farmer  living  hard  by,  came  and  lent  his  coun- 
tenance to  the  enterprise.  I  sat  in  one  end  of  the 
boat  and  he  in  the  other,  my  pork  was  the  same  as 
his,  and  I  manoeuvred  it  as  directed,  and  yet  those 
fish,  knew  his  hook  from  mine  in  sixty  feet  of 
water,  and  preferred  it  four  times  in  five.  Evi- 
dently they  did  not  bite  because  they  were  hungry, 
but  solely  for  old  acquaintance'  sake. 

Pleasant  Pond  is  an  irregular  sheet  of  water, 
two  miles  or  more  in  its  greatest  diameter,  with  high 
rugged  mountains  rising  up  from  its  western  shore, 
and  low  rolling  hills  sweeping  back  from  its  eastern 
and  northern,  covered  by  a  few  sterile  farms.  I 
was  never  tired,  when  the  wind  was  still,  of  float- 
ing along  its  margin  and  gazing  down  into  its  mar- 
velously  translucent  depths.  The  bowlders  and 
fragments  of  rocks  were  seen,  at  a  depth  of  twenty- 
five  or  thirty  feet,  strewing  its  floor,  and  appar- 
ently as  free  from  any  covering  of  sediment  as  when 
they  were  dropped  there  by  the  old  glaciers  aeons 
ago.  Our  camp  was  amid  a  dense  grove  of  second 
growth  of  white  pine  on  the  eastern  shore,  where, 
for  one,  I  found  a  most  admirable  cradle  in  a  little 
depression  outside  of  the  tent,  carpeted  with  pine 
needles,  in  which  to  pass  the  night.      The  camper- 


106  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

out  is  always  in  luck  if  he  can  find,  sheltered  by 
the  trees,  a  soft  hole  in  the  ground,  even  if  he  has 
a  stone  for  a  pillow.  The  earth  must  open  its 
arms  a  little  for  us  even  in  life,  if  we  are  to  sleep 
well  upon  its  bosom.  I  have  often  heard  my  grand- 
father, who  was  a  soldier  of  the  Revolution,  tell 
with  great  gusto  how  he  once  bivouacked  in  a  little 
hollow  made  by  the  overturning  of  a  tree,  and  slept 
so  soundly  that  he  did  not  wake  up  till  his  cradle 
was  half  full  of  water  from  a  passing  shower. 

What  bird  or  other  creature  might  represent  the 
divinity  of  Pleasant  Pond  I  do  not  know,  but  its 
demon,  as  of  most  northern  inland  waters,  is  the 
loon;  and  a  very  good  demon  he  is,  too,  suggesting 
something  not  so  much  malevolent  as  arch,  sar- 
donic, ubiquitous,  circumventing,  with  just  a  tinge 
of  something  inhuman  and  uncanny.  His  fiery-red 
eyes  gleaming  forth  from  that  jet-black  head  are  full 
of  meaning.  Then  his  strange  horse-laughter  by 
day,  and  his  weird,  doleful  cry  at  night,  like  that 
of  a  lost  and  wandering  spirit,  recall  no  other  bird 
or  beast.  He  suggests  something  almost  supernatu- 
ral in  his  alertness  and  amazing  quickness,  cheating 
the  shot  and  the  bullet  of  the  sportsman  out  of 
their  aim.  I  know  of  but  one  other  bird  so  quick, 
and  that  is  the  hummingbird,  which  I  never  have 
been  able  to  kill  with  a  gun.  The  loon  laughs  the 
shotgun  to  scorn,  and  the  obliging  young  farmer 
above  referred  to  told  me  he  had  shot  at  them 
hundreds  of  times  with  his  rifle,  without  eff'ect,  — 
they  always   dodged  his   bullet.      We   had   in  our 


A  TASTE   OF   MAINE   BIRCH  107 

party  a  breech- loading  rifle,  which  weapon  is  per- 
haps an  appreciable  moment  of  time  quicker  than 
the  ordinary  muzzle-loader,  and  this  the  poor  loon 
could  not  or  did  not  dodge.      He  had   not  timed 
himself  to  that  species  of  firearms,  and  when,  with 
his  fellow,  he  swam  about  within  rifle  range  of  our 
camp,  letting  ofl"  volleys  of  his  wild,  ironical  ha-ha, 
he    little    suspected    the    dangerous    gun    that   was 
matched  against  him.      As  the  rifle   cracked,   both 
loons  made  the  gesture  of  diving,  but  only  one  of 
them  disappeared  beneath  the  water;  and  when  he 
came  to  the  surface  in  a  few  moments,  a  hundred 
or  more  yards  away,   and   saw  his   companion   did 
not  follow,  but  was  floating  on  the  water  where  he 
had  last  seen  him,  he  took  the  alarm  and  sped  away 
in  the  distance.      The  bird  I  had  killed  was  a  mag- 
nificent specimen,  and  I  looked  him  over  with  great 
interest.      His   glossy   checkered   coat,    his    banded 
neck,    his   snow-white   breast,    his   powerful   lance- 
shaped  beak,  his  red  eyes,  his  black,  thin,  slender, 
marvelously  delicate  feet  and  legs,  issuing  from  his 
muscular  thighs,  and  looking  as  if  they  had  never 
touched  the  ground,  his  strong  wings  well  forward, 
while  his  legs  were  quite  at  the  apex,  and  the  neat, 
elegant  model  of  the  entire  bird,  speed  and  quick- 
ness and  strength  stamped  upon  every  feature,  — 
all  delighted  and  lingered  in  the  eye.      The  loon 
appears  like  anything  but  a  silly  bird,  unless  you 
see  him  in  some  collection,  or  in  the  shop  of  the 
taxidermist,  where  he  usually  looks  very  tame  and 
goose-like.      Nature  never  meant  the  loon  to  stand 


108  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

tip,  or  to  use  his  feet  and  legs  for  other  purposes 
than  swimming.  Indeed,  he  cannot  stand  except 
upon  his  tail  in  a  perpendicular  attitude ;  but  in  the 
collections  he  is  poised  upon  his  feet  like  a  barn- 
yard fowl,  all  the  wildness  and  grace  and  alertness 
gone  out  of  him.  My  specimen  sits  upon  a  table 
as  upon  the  surface  of  the  water,  his  feet  trailing 
behind  him,  his  body  low  and  trim,  his  head  ele- 
vated and  slightly  turned  as  if  in  the  act  of  bring- 
ing that  fiery  eye  to  bear  upon  you,  and  vigilance 
and  power  stamped  upon  every  lineament. 

The  loon  is  to  the  fishes  what  the  hawk  is  to  the 
birds;  he  swoops  down  to  unknown  depths  upon 
them,  and  not  even  the  wary  trout  can  elude  him. 
Uncle  Nathan  said  he  had  seen  the  loon  disappear, 
and  in  a  moment  come  up  with  a  large  trout,  which 
he  would  cut  in  two  with  his  strong  beak  and 
swallow  piecemeal.  Neither  the  loon  nor  the  otter 
can  bolt  a  fish  under  the  water;  he  must  come  to 
the  surface  to  dispose  of  it.  (I  once  saw  a  man  eat 
a  cake  under  water  in  London.)  Our  guide  told 
me  he  had  seen  the  parent  loon  swimming  with  a 
single  young  one  upon  its  back.  When  closely 
pressed,  it  dived,  or  "div,"  as  he  would  have  it, 
and  left  the  young  bird  sitting  upon  the  water. 
Then  it  too  disappeared,  and  when  the  old  one 
returned  and  called  it  came  out  from  the  shore. 
On  the  wing  overhead  the  loon  looks  not  unlike 
a  very  large  duck,  but  when  it  alights  it  plows 
into  the  water  like  a  bombshell.  It  probably  can- 
not take  flight  from  the  land,  as  the  one  Gilbert 


A   TASTE    OF   MAINE   BIKCH  109 

White  saw  and  describes  in  his  letters  was  picked 
up  in  a  field,  unable  to  launch  itself  into  the  air. 

From  Pleasant  Pond  we  went  seven  miles  through 
the  woods  to  Moxie  Lake,  following  an  overgrown 
lumberman's  "tote"  road,  our  canoe  and  supplies, 
etc.,  hauled  on  a  sled  by  the  young  farmer  with 
his  three-year-old  steers.  I  doubt  if  birch-bark 
ever  made  a  rougher  voyage  than  that.  As  I 
watched  it  above  the  bushes,  the  sled  and  the 
luggage  being  hidden,  it  appeared  as  if  tossed  in 
the  wildest  and  most  tempestuous  sea.  When  the 
bushes  closed  above  it,  I  felt  as  if  it  had  gone 
down,  or  been  broken  into  a  hundred  pieces.  Bil- 
lows of  rocks  and  logs,  and  chasms  of  creeks  and 
spring  runs,  kept  it  rearing  and  pitching  in  the 
most  frightful  manner.  The  steers  went  at  a  spank- 
ing pace ;  indeed,  it  was  a  regular  bovine  gale ;  but 
their  driver  clung  to  their  side  amid  the  brush  and 
bowlders  with  desperate  tenacity,  and  seemed  to 
manage  them  by  signs  and  nudges,  for  he  hardly  ut- 
tered his  orders  aloud.  But  we  got  through  with- 
out any  serious  mishap,  passing  Mosquito  Creek 
and  Mosquito  Pond,  and  flanking  Mosquito  Moun- 
tain, but  seeing  no  mosquitoes,  and  brought  up  at 
dusk  at  a  lumberman's  old  hay-barn,  standing  in 
the  midst  of  a  lonely  clearing  on  the  shores  of 
Moxie  Lake. 

Here  we  passed  the  night,  and  were  lucky  in 
having  a  good  roof  over  our  heads,  for  it  rained 
heavily.  After  we  were  rolled  in  our  blankets  and 
variously  disposed  upon  the  haymow.  Uncle  Nathan 


110  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

lulled    us    to    sleep    by    a    long    and   characteristic 
yarn. 

I  had  asked  him,  half  jocosely,  if  he  believed  in 
"spooks;"  but  he  took  my  question  seriously,  and 
without  answering  it  directly,  proceeded  to  tell  us 
what  he  himself  had  known  and  witnessed.  It 
was,  by  the  way,  extremely  difficult  either  to  sur- 
prise or  to  steal  upon  any  of  Uncle  Nathan's  pri- 
vate opinions  and  beliefs  about  matters  and  things. 
He  was  as  shy  of  all  debatable  subjects  as  a  fox 
is  of  a  trap.  He  usually  talked  in  a  circle,  just  as 
he  hunted  moose  and  caribou,  so  as  not  to  approach 
his  point  too  rudely  and  suddenly.  He  would  keep 
on  the  lee  side  of  his  interlocutor  in  spite  of  all  one 
could  do.  He  was  thoroughly  good  and  reliable, 
but  the  wild  creatures  of  the  woods,  in  pursuit  of 
which  he  had  spent  so  much  of  his  life,  had  taught 
him  a  curious  gentleness  and  indirection,  and  to 
keep  himself  in  the  background;  he  was  careful 
that  you  should  not  scent  his  opinions  upon  any 
subject  at  all  polemic,  but  he  would  tell  you  what 
he  had  seen  and  known.  What  he  had  seen  and 
known  about  spooks  was  briefly  this:  In  company 
with  a  neighbor  he  was  passing  the  night  with  an 
old  recluse  who  lived  somewhere  in  these  woods. 
Their  host  was  an  Englishman,  who  had  the  repu- 
tation of  having  murdered  his  w^fe  some  years 
before  in  another  part  of  the  country,  and,  deserted 
by  his  grown-up  children,  was  eking  out  his  days 
in  poverty  amid  these  solitudes.  The  three  men 
were  sleeping  upon  the  floor,  with  Uncle  Kathan 


A   TASTE    OF   MAINE    BIRCH  HI 

next  to  a  rude  partition  that  divided  the  cabin  into 
two  rooms.  At  his  head  there  was  a  door  that 
opened  into  this  other  apartment.  Late  at  night, 
Uncle  Nathan  said,  he  awoke  and  turned  over, 
and  his  mind  was  occupied  with  various  things, 
when  he  heard  somebody  behind  the  partition.  He 
reached  over  and  felt  that  both  of  his  companions 
were  in  their  places  beside  him,  and  he  was  some- 
what surprised.  The  person,  or  whatever  it  was, 
in  the  other  room  moved  about  heavily,  and  pulled 
the  table  from  its  place  beside  the  wall  to  the  mid- 
dle of  the  floor.  "I  was  not  dreaming,"  said  Uncle 
Nathan;  "I  felt  of  my  eyes  twice  to  make  sure, 
and  they  were  wide  open."  Presently  the  door 
opened;  he  was  sensible  of  the  draught  upon  his 
head,  and  a  woman's  form  stepped  heavily  past 
him;  he  felt  the  "swirl"  of  her  skirts  as  she  went 
by.  Then  there  was  a  loud  noise  in  the  room,  as 
if  some  one  had  fallen  his  whole  length  upon  the 
floor.      "It  jarred  the  house,"  said  he,  "and  woke 

everybody  up.      I  asked  old  Mr.  if  he  heard 

that  noise.  *  Yes, '  said  he,  '  it  was  thunder. ' 
But  it  was  not  thunder,  I  know  that ; "  and  then 
added,  "I  was  no  more  afraid  than  I  am  this 
minute.  I  never  was  the  least  mite  afraid  in  my 
life.  And  my  eyes  were  wide  open,"  he  repeated; 
"I  felt  of  them  twice;  but  whether  that  was  the 
speret  of  that  man's  murdered  wife  or  not,  I  can- 
not tell.  They  said  she  was  an  uncommon  heavy 
woman."  Uncle  Nathan  was  a  man  of  unusually 
quick  and  acute  senses,  and  he  did  not  doubt  their 


112  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

evidence  on  this  occasion  any  more  than  he  did 
when  they  prompted  him  to  level  his  rifle  at  a  bear 
or  a  moose. 

Moxie  Lake  lies  much  lower  than  Pleasant  Pond, 
and  its  waters  compared  with  those  of  the  latter  are 
as  copper  compared  with  silver.  It  is  very  irregu- 
lar in  shape;  now  narrowing  to  the  dimensions  of 
a  slow-moving  grassy  creek,  then  expanding  into 
a  broad  deep  basin  with  rocky  shores,  and  command- 
ing the  noblest  mountain  scenery.  It  is  rarely  that 
the  pond-lily  and  the  speckled  trout  are  found 
together,  —  the  fish  the  soul  of  the  purest  spring 
water,  the  flower  the  transfigured  spirit  of  the  dark 
mud  and  slime  of  sluggish  summer  streams  and 
ponds;  yet  in  Moxie  they  were  both  found  in  per- 
fection. Our  camp  was  amid  the  birches,  poplars, 
and  white  cedars  near  the  head  of  the  lake,  where 
the  best  fishing  at  this  season  was  to  be  had. 
Moxie  has  a  small  oval  head,  rather  shallow,  but 
bumpy  with  rocks;  a  long,  deep  neck,  full  of 
springs,  where  the  trout  lie;  and  a  very  broad 
chest,  with  two  islands  tufted  with  pine-trees  for 
breasts.  We  swam  in  the  head,  we  fished  in  the 
neck,  or  in  a  small  section  of  it,  a  space  about  the 
size  of  the  Adam's  apple,  and  we  paddled  across 
and  around  the  broad  expanse  below.  Our  birch- 
bark  was  not  finished  and  christened  till  we  reached 
Moxie.  The  cedar  lining  was  completed  at  Pleas- 
ant Pond,  where  we  had  the  use  of  a  bateau,  but 
the  rosin  was  not  applied  to  the  seams  till  we 
reached  this  lake.      When  I  knelt  down  in  it  foi 


A   TASTE    OF   MAINE   BIRCH  113 

the  first  time,  and  put  its  slender  maple  paddle  into 
the  water,  it  sprang  away  with  such  quickness  and 
speed  that  it  disturbed  me  in  my  seat.  I  had 
spurred  a  more  restive  and  spirited  steed  than  I 
was  used  to.  In  fact,  I  had  never  been  in  a  craft 
that  sustained  so  close  a  relation  to  my  will,  and 
was  so  responsive  to  my  slightest  wish.  When  I 
caught  my  first  large  trout  from  it,  it  sympathized 
a  little  too  closely,  and  my  enthusiasm  started  a 
leak,  which,  however,  with  a  live  coal  and  a  piece 
of  rosin,  was  quickly  mended.  You  cannot  perform 
much  of  a  war-dance  in  a  birch- bark  canoe;  better 
wait  till  you  get  on  dry  land.  Yet  as  a  boat  it  is 
not  so  shy  and  "ticklish"  as  I  had  imagined.  One 
needs  to  be  on  the  alert,  as  becomes  a  sportsman 
and  an  angler,  and  in  his  dealings  with  it  must 
charge  himself  with  three  things,  —  precision,  mod- 
eration, and  circumspection. 

Trout  weighing  four  and  five  pounds  have  been 
taken  at  Moxie,  but  none  of  that  size  came  to  our 
hand.  I  realized  the  fondest  hopes  I  had  dared  to 
indulge  in  when  I  hooked  the  first  two-pounder  of 
my  life,  and  my  extreme  solicitude  lest  he  get  away 
I  trust  was  pardonable.  My  friend,  in  relating  the 
episode  in  camp,  said  I  had  implored  him  to  roAV 
me  down  in  the  middle  of  the  lake  that  I  might 
have  room  to  manoeuvre  my  fish.  But  the  slander 
has  barely  a  grain  of  truth  in  it.  The  water  near 
us  showed  several  old  stakes  broken  off  just  below 
the  surface,  and  my  fish  was  determined  to  wrap 
my  leader  about  one  of  these  stakes;  it  was  only 


114  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

for  the  clear  space  a  few  yards  farther  out  that  I 
prayed.  It  was  not  long  after  that  ray  friend  found 
himself  in  an  anxious  frame  of  mind.  He  hooked 
a  large  trout,  which  came  home  on  him  so  suddenly 
that  he  had  not  time  to  reel  up  his  line,  and  in  his 
extremity  he  stretched  his  tall  form  into  the  air  and 
lifted  up  his  pole  to  an  incredible  height.  He 
checked  the  trout  before  it  got  under  the  boat,  but 
dared  not  come  down  an  inch,  and  then  began  his 
amusing  further  elongation  in  reaching  for  his  reel 
with  one  hand,  while  he  carried  it  ten  feet  into  the 
air  with  the  other.  A  step-ladder  would  perhaps 
have  been  more  welcome  to  him  just  then  than  at 
any  other  moment  during  his  life.  But  the  trout  was 
saved,  though  my  friend's  buttons  and  suspenders 
suffered. 

We  learned  a  new  trick  in  fly-fishing  here,  worth 
disclosing.  It  was  not  one  day  in  four  that  the 
trout  would  take  the  fly  on  the  surface.  When 
the  south  wind  was  blowing  and  the  clouds  threat- 
ened rain,  they  would  at  times,  notably  about  three 
o'clock,  rise  handsomely.  But  on  all  other  occa- 
sions it  was  rarely  that  we  could  entice  them  up 
through  the  twelve  or  fifteen  feet  of  water.  Earlier 
in  the  season  they  are  not  so  lazy  and  indifferent, 
but  the  August  languor  and  drowsiness  were  now 
upon  them.  So  we  learned  by  a  lucky  accident  to 
fish  deep  for  them,  even  weighting  our  leaders  with 
a  shot,  and  allowing  the  flies  to  sink  nearly  to  the 
bottom.  After  a  moment's  pause  we  would  draw 
them  slowly  up,  and  when  half  or  two  thirds  of 


A   TASTE    OF   MAINE    BIRCH  115 

the  way  to  the  top  the  trout  would  strike,  wlieu 
the  sport  became  lively  enough.  Most  of  our  fish 
were  taken  in  this  way.  There  is  nothing  like  the 
flash  and  the  strike  at  the  surface,  and  perhaps 
only  the  need  of  food  will  ever  tempt  the  genuine 
angler  into  any  more  prosaic  style  of  fishing;  but 
if  you  must  go  below  the  surface,  a  shotted  leader 
is  the  best  thing  to  use. 

Our  camp-fire  at  night  served  more  purposes  than 
one;  from  its  embers  and  flickering  shadows.  Uncle 
Nathan  read  us  many  a  tale  of  his  life  in  the  woods. 
They  were  the  same  old  hunter's  stories,  except 
that  they  evidently  had  the  merit  of  being  strictly 
true,  and  hence  were  not  very  thrilling  or  marvel- 
ous. Uncle  Nathan's  tendency  was  rather  to  tone 
down  and  belittle  his  experiences  than  to  exagger- 
ate them.  If  he  ever  bragged  at  all  (and  I  suspect 
he  did  just  a  little,  when  telling  us  how  he  outshot 
one  of  the  famous  riflemen  of  the  American  team, 
whom  he  was  guiding  through  these  woods),  he  did 
it  in  such  a  sly,  roundabout  way  that  it  was  hard 
to  catch  him  at  it.  His  passage  with  the  rifleman 
referred  to  shows  the  difi'erence  between  the  practi- 
cal offhand  skill  of  the  hunter  in  the  woods  and 
the  science  of  the  long-range  target-hitter.  INIr. 
Bull's  Eye  had  heard  that  his  guide  was  a  capital 
shot,  and  had  seen  some  proof  of  it,  and  hence 
could  not  rest  till  he  had  had  a  trial  of  skill  with 
him.  Uncle  Nathan,  being  the  challenged  party, 
had  the  right  to  name  the  distance  and  the  condi- 
tions.     A  piece  of  white  paper  the  size  of  a  silver 


116  SIGNS    AND   SEASONS 

dollar  was  put  upon  a  tree  twelve  rods  off,  the  con- 
testants to  fire  three  shots  each  offhand.  Uncle 
Nathan's  first  bullet  barely  missed  the  mark,  but 
the  other  two  were  planted  well  into  it.  Then  the 
great  rifleman  took  his  turn,  and  missed  every  time. 
"By  hemp!"  said  Uncle  Nathan,  "I  was  sorry 

I  shot  so  well,  Mr.  took  it  so  to  heart;  and 

I  had  used  his  own  rifle,  too.      He  did  not  get  over 
it  for  a  week." 

But  far  more  ignominious  was  the  failure  of  Mr. 
Bull's  Eye  when  he  saw  his  first  bear.      They  were 
paddling   slowly   and    silently   down    Dead    Eiver, 
when  the  guide  heard  a  slight  noise  in  the  bushes 
just  behind  a   little   bend.      He  whispered   to    the 
rifleman,  who  sat  kneeling  in  the  bow  of  the  boat, 
to  take  his  rifle.     But  instead  of  doing  so,  he  picked 
up  his  two-barreled  shotgun.      As  they  turned  the 
point,  there  stood  a  bear  not  twenty  yards  away, 
drinking  from  the  stream.      Uncle  Nathan  held  the 
canoe,  while  the  man  who  had  come  so  far  in  quest 
of  this  very  game  was  trying  to  lay  down  his  shot- 
gun and  pick  up  his  rifle.      "  His  hand  moved  like 
the  hand  of  a  clock,"  said  Uncle  Nathan,  "and  I 
could  hardly  keep  my  seat.      I  knew  the  bear  would 
see  us  in  a  moment    more   and  run."     Instead  of 
laying  his  gun  by  his  side,  where  it  belonged,  he 
reached  it  across  in  front  of  him,  and  laid  it  upon 
his  rifle,  and  in  trying  to  get  the  latter  from  undep 
it  a  noise  was  made;  the  bear  heard  it  and  raised 
his  head.      Still  there  was   time,    for   as   the   bear 
sprang  into  the  woods  he  stopped  and  looked  back, 


A   TASTE    OF   MAINE   BIRCH  117 

"as  I  knew  he  would,"  said  the  guide;  yet  the 

marksman  was  not  ready.  "By  hemp!  I  could 
have  shot  three  bears,"  exclaimed  Uncle  Nathan, 
"  while  he  was  getting  that  rifle  to  his  face ! " 

Poor  Mr.  Bull's  Eye  was  deeply  humiliated. 
"Just  the  chance  I  had  been  looking  for,"  he  said, 
"and  my  wits  suddenly  left  me." 

As  a  hunter,  Uncle  Nathan  always  took  the  game 
on  its  own  terms,  that  of  still-hunting.  He  even 
shot  foxes  in  this  way,  going  into  the  fields  in  the 
fall  just  at  break  of  day,  and  watching  for  them 
about  their  mousing  haunts.  One  morning,  by  these 
tactics,  he  shot  a  black  fox;  a  fine  specimen,  he 
said,  and  a  wild  one,  for  he  stopped  and  looked  and 
listened  every  few  yards. 

He  had  killed  over  two  hundred  moose,  a  large 
number  of  them  at  night  on  the  lakes.  His  method 
was  to  go  out  in  his  canoe  and  conceal  himself  by 
some  point  or  island,  and  wait  till  he  heard  the 
game.  In  the  fall  the  moose  comes  into  the  water 
to  eat  the  large  fibrous  roots  of  the  pond-lilies.  He 
splashes  along  till  he  finds  a  suitable  spot,  when  he 
begins  feeding,  sometimes  thrusting  his  head  and 
neck  several  feet  under  water.  The  hunter  listens, 
and  when  the  moose  lifts  his  head  and  the  rills  of 
water  run  from  it,  and  he  hears  him  "swash"  the 
lily  roots  about  to  get  off  the  mud,  it  is  his  time  to 
start.  Silently  as  a  shadow  he  creeps  up  on  the 
moose,  who,  by  the  way,  it  seems,  never  expects 
the  approach  of  danger  from  the  water  side.  If 
the  hunter  accidentally  makes  a  noise,   the   moose 


118  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

looks  toward  the  shore  for  it.  There  is  always 
a  slight  gleam  on  the  water,  Uncle  Nathan  says, 
even  in  the  darkest  night,  and  the  dusky  form  of 
the  moose  can  be  distinctly  seen  upon  it.  When 
the  hunter  sees  this  darker  shadow,  he  lifts  his  gun 
to  the  sky  and  gets  the  range  of  its  barrels,  then 
lowers  it  till  it  covers  the  mark,  and  fires. 

The  largest  moose  Uncle  Nathan  ever  killed  is 
mounted  in  the  State  House  at  Augusta.  He  shot 
him  while  hunting  in  winter  on  snow-shoes.  The 
moose  was  reposing  upon  the  ground,  with  his  head 
stretched  out  in  front  of  him,  as  one  may  sometimes 
see  a  cow  resting.  The  position  was  such  that  only 
a  quartering  shot  through  the  animal's  hip  could 
reach  its  heart.  Studying  the  problem  carefully, 
and  taking  his  own  time,  the  hunter  fired.  The 
moose  sprang  into  the  air,  turned,  and  came  with 
tremendous  strides  straight  toward  him.  "I  knew 
he  had  not  seen  or  scented  me,"  said  Uncle  Na- 
than, "but,  by  hemp,  I  wished  myself  somewhere 
else  just  then;  for  I  was  lying  right  down  in  his 
path."  But  the  noble  animal  stopped  a  few  yards 
short,  and  fell  dead  with  a  bullet  hole  through  his 
heart. 

When  the  moose  yard  in  the  winter,  that  is, 
restrict  their  wanderings  to  a  well-defined  section 
of  the  forest  or  mountain,  trampling  down  the  snow 
and  beating  paths  in  all  directions,  they  browse  off 
only  the  most  dainty  morsels  first;  when  they  go 
over  the  ground  a  second  time  they  crop  a  little 
cleaner;   the  third  time  they  sort  still   closer,    till 


A  TASTE   OF  MAINE  BIRCH  119 

by  and  by  nothing  is  left.  Spruce,  hemlock,  pop- 
lar, the  barks  of  various  trees,  everything  within 
reach,  is  cropped  close.  AVhen  the  hunter  comes 
upon  one  of  these  yards  the  problem  for  him  to 
settle  is,  Where  are  the  moose  ?  for  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  he  keep  on  the  lee  side  of  them. 
So  he  considers  the  lay  of  the  land,  the  direction 
of  the  wind,  the  time  of  day,  the  depth  of  the 
snow,  examines  the  spoor,  the  cropped  twigs,  and 
studies  every  hint  and  clew  like  a  detective.  Uncle 
Nathan  said  he  could  not  explain  to  another  how 
he  did  it,  but  he  could  usually  tell  in  a  few  minutes 
in  what  direction  to  look  for  the  game.  His  expe- 
rience had  ripened  into  a  kind  of  intuition  or  winged 
reasoning  that  was  above  rules. 

He  said  that  most  large  game,  —  deer,  caribou, 
moose,  bear,  —  when  started  by  the  hunter  and  not 
much  scared,  were  sure  to  stop  and  look  back  before 
disappearing  from  sight;  he  usually  waited  for  this 
last  and  best  chance  to  fire.  He  told  us  of  a  huge 
bear  he  had  seen  one  morning  while  still-hunting 
foxes  in  the  fields ;  the  bear  saw  him,  and  got  into 
the  woods  before  he  could  get  a  good  shot.  In  her 
course,  some  distance  up  the  mountain,  was  a  bald, 
open  spot,  and  he  felt  sure  when  she  crossed  this 
spot  she  would  pause  and  look  behind  her;  and 
sure  enough,  like  Lot's  wife,  her  curiosity  got  the 
better  of  her;  she  stopped  to  have  a  final  look,  and 
her  travels  ended  there  and  then. 

Uncle  Nathan  had  trapped  and  shot  a  great  many 
bears,  and  some  of  his  experiences  revealed  an  un- 


120  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

usual  degree  of  sagacity  in  this  animal.     One  April, 
when  the  weather  began  to  get  warm  and  thawy, 
an  old  bear  left  her  den  in  the  rocks,  and  built  a 
large,  warm  nest  of  grass,  leaves,  and  the  bark  of 
the  white  cedar,  under  a  tall  balsam  fir  that  stood 
in  a  low,    sunny,  open  place  amid  the  mountains. 
Hither  she  conducted  her  two  cubs,  and  the  family 
began  life  in  what  might  be  called  their  spring  resi- 
dence.     The  tree  above  them  was  for  shelter,  and 
for  refuge  for  the  cubs  in  case  danger  approached, 
as  it  soon  did  in  the  form  of  Uncle  Nathan.      He 
happened  that  way  soon  after  the  bear  had  moved. 
Seeing  her  track  in  the  snow,  he  concluded  to  fol- 
low it.      When  the  bear  had  passed,  the  snow  had 
been  soft  and  sposhy,  and  she  had  "slumped,"  he 
said,  several  inches.     It  was  now  hard  and  slippery. 
As  he  neared  the  tree,  the  track  turned  and  doubled, 
and  tacked  this  way  and  that,  and  led  through  the 
worst  brush  and  brambles  to  be  found.      This  was 
a  shrewd  thought  of  the  old  bear;  she  could  thus 
hear  her  enemy  coming  a  long  time  before  he  drew 
very  near.      When  Uncle  Nathan  finally  reached  the 
nest,  he  found  it  empty,  but  still  warm.      Then  he 
began  to  circle  about  and  look  for  the   bear's  foot- 
prints or  nailprints  upon  the  frozen  snow.    Not  find- 
ing themi  the  first  time,  he  took  a  larger  circle,  then 
a  still  larger;   finally  he  made  a  long  detour,    and 
spent  nearly  an  hour  searching  for  some  clew  to  the 
direction  the  bear  had  taken,  but  all  to  no  purpose. 
Then   he   returned   to   the  tree  and  scrutinized  it. 
The  foliage  was  very  dense,  but  presently  he  made 


A  TASTE   OF  MAINE   BIRCH  121 

out  one  of  the  cubs  near  the  top,  standing  up  amid 
the  branches,  and  peering  down  at  him.  This  he 
killed.  Further  search  only  revealed  a  mass  of 
foliage  apparently  more  dense  than  usual,  but  a 
bullet  sent  into  it  was  followed  by  loud  whimpering 
and  crying,  and  the  other  baby  bear  came  tumbling 
down.  In  leaving  the  place,  greatly  puzzled  as  to 
what  had  become  of  the  mother  bear,  Uncle  Nathan 
followed  another  of  her  frozen  tracks,  and  after 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  saw  beside  it,  upon  the 
snow,  the  fresh  trail  he  had  been  in  search  of.  In 
making  her  escape,  the  bear  had  stepped  exactly  in 
her  old  tracks  that  were  hard  and  icy,  and  had  thus 
left  no  mark  till  she  took  to  the  snow  again. 

During  his  trapping  expeditions  into  the  woods 
in  midwinter,  I  was  curious  to  know  how  Uncle 
Nathan  passed  the  nights,  as  we  were  twice  pinched 
with  the  cold  at  that  season  in  our  tent  and  blan- 
kets. It  was  no  trouble  to  keep  warm,  he  said, 
in  the  coldest  weather.  As  night  approached,  he 
would  select  a  place  for  his  camp  on  the  side  of  a 
hill.  With  one  of  his  snow-shoes  he  would  shovel 
out  the  snow  till  the  ground  was  reached,  carrying 
the  snow  out  in  front,  as  we  scrape  the  earth  out  of 
the  side  of  a  hill  to  level  up  a  place  for  the  house 
and  yard.  On  this  level  place,  which,  however, 
was  made  to  incline  slightly  toward  the  hill,  his 
bed  of  boughs  was  made.  On  the  ground  he  had 
uncovered  he  built  his  fire.  His  bed  was  thus  on 
a  level  with  the  fire,  and  the  heat  could  not  thaw 
the  snow  under  him  and  let  him  down,  or  the  burn- 


122  SIGNS  AND   SE  UONS 

ing  logs  roll  upon  him.  "With  a  steep  ascent  behind 
it,  the  fire  burned  better,  and  the  wind  was  not  so 
apt  to  drive  the  smoke  and  blaze  in  upon  him. 
Then,  with  the  long,  curving  branches  of  the  spruce 
stuck  thickly  around  three  sides  of  the  bed,  and 
curving  over  and  uniting  their  tops  above  it,  a 
shelter  was  formed  that  would  keep  out  the  cold 
and  the  snow,  and  that  would  catch  and  retain  the 
warmth  of  the  fire.  Rolled  in  his  blanket  in  such 
a  nest,  Uncle  Nathan  had  passed  hundreds  of  the 
most  frigid  winter  nights. 

One  day  we  made  an  excursion  of  three  miles 
through  the  woods  to  Bald  Mountain,  following  a 
dim  trail.  We  saw,  as  we  filed  silently  along, 
plenty  of  signs  of  caribou,  deer,  and  bear,  but  were 
not  blessed  with  a  sight  of  either  of  the  animals 
themselves.  I  noticed  that  Uncle  Nathan,  in  look- 
ing through  the  woods,  did  not  hold  his  head  as 
we  did,  but  thrust  it  slightly  forward,  and  peered 
under  the  branches  like  a  deer,  or  other  wild  crea- 
ture. 

The  summit  of  Bald  Mountain  was  the  most 
impressive  mountain-top  I  had  ever  seen,  mainly, 
perhaps,  because  it  was  one  enormous  crown  of 
nearly  naked  granite.  The  rock  had  that  gray, 
elemental,  eternal  look  which  granite  alone  has. 
One  seemed  to  be  face  to  face  with  the  gods  of  the 
fore- world.  Like  an  atom,  like  a  breath  of  to-day, 
we  were  suddenly  confronted  by  abysmal  geologic 
time,  —  the  eternities  past  and  the  eternities  to 
come.     The   enormous   cleavage   of   the  rocks,    the 


A  TASTE   OF  MAINE   BIRCH  123 

appalling  cracks  and  fissures,  the  rent  bowlders,  the 
smitten  granite  floors,  gave  one  a  new  sense  of  the 
power  of  heat  and  frost.  In  one  place  we  noticed 
several  deep  parallel  grooves,  made  by  the  old  gla- 
ciers. In  the  depressions  on  the  summit  there  was 
a  hard,  black,  peaty-like  soil  that  looked  indescrib- 
ably ancient  and  unfamiliar.  Out  of  this  mould, 
which  might  have  come  from  the  moon  or  the  inter- 
planetary spaces,  were  growing  mountain  cranber- 
ries and  blueberries  or  huckleberries.  We  were 
soon  so  absorbed  in  gathering  the  latter  that  we 
were  quite  oblivious  of  the  grandeurs  about  us.  It 
is  these  blueberries  that  attract  the  bears.  In  eat- 
ing them,  Uncle  Nathan  said,  they  take  the  bushes 
in  their  mouths,  and  by  an  upward  movement  strip 
them  clean  of  both  leaves  and  berries.  We  were 
constantly  on  the  lookout  for  the  bears,  but  failed 
to  see  any.  Yet  a  few  days  afterward,  when  two 
of  our  party  returned  here  and  encamped  upon  the 
mountain,  they  saw  five  during  their  stay,  but  failed 
to  get  a  good  shot.  The  rifle  was  in  the  wrong 
place  each  time.  The  man  with  the  shotgun  saw 
an  old  bear  and  two  cubs  lift  themselves  from  be- 
hind a  rock  and  twist  their  noses  around  for  his 
scent,  and  then  shrink  away.  They  were  too  far 
off  for  his  buckshot.  I  must  not  forget  the  superb 
view  that  lay  before  us,  a  wilderness  of  woods  and 
waters  stretching  away  to  the  horizon  on  every 
hand.  Nearly  a  dozen  lakes  and  ponds  could  be 
seen,  and  in  a  clearer  atmosphere  the  foot  of  Moose- 
head  Lake  would  have  been  visible.      The  highest 


124  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 


and  most  striking  mountain  to  be  seen  was  Mount 
Bigelow,  rising  above  Dead  River,  far  to  the  west, 
and  its  two  sharp  peaks  notching  the  horizon  like 
enormous  saw-teeth.     We  walked  around  and  viewed 
curiously  a  huge  bowlder  on  the  top  of  the  moun- 
tain that  had  been  split  in  two  vertically,  and  one 
of  the  halves  moved  a  few  feet  out  of  its  bed.      It 
looked  recent  and  familiar,  but  suggested  gods  in- 
stead of  men.      The  force  that  moved  the  rock  had 
plainly  come  from  the  north.      I  thought  of  a  simi- 
lar bowlder  I  had  seen  not  long  before  on  the  high- 
est point  of  the  Shawangunk  Mountains,   in  New 
York,  one  side  of  which  is  propped  up  with  a  large 
stone,   as  wall-builders  prop  up  a  rock  to  wrap   a 
chain  around  it.      The   rock  seems   poised  lightly, 
and  has  but  a  few  points  of  bearing."     In  this  in- 
stance, too,  the  power  had  come  from  the  north. 

The  prettiest  botanical  specimen  my  trip  yielded 
was   a    little    plant   that    bears   the    ugly   name   of 
horned  bladderwort,  and  which  I  found  growing  in 
marshy  places    along  the    shores    of   Moxie    Lake. 
It  has  a  slender,   naked  stem  nearly  a  foot   high, 
crowned  by  two  or  more  large  deep  yellow  flowers, 
—  flowers   the   shape   of    little   bonnets   or   hoods. 
One  almost  expected  to  see  tiny  faces  looking  out 
of  them.      This  illusion  is  heightened  by  the  horn 
or  spur  of  the  flower,  which  projects  from  the  hood 
like  a  long  tapering  chin,  — some  masker's  device. 
Then   the    cape    behind,  —  what   a   smart    upward 
curve  it  has,  as  if  spurned  by  the  fairy  shoulders 
it   was   meant  to    cover!     But    perhaps    the    most 


A  TASTE   OF  MAINE   BIRCH  125 

notable  thing  about  the  flower  was  its  fragrance,  — 
the  richest  and  strongest  perfume  I  have  ever  found 
in  a  wild  flower.  This  our  botanist,  Gray,  does 
not  mention,  as  if  one  should  describe  the  lark  and 
forget  its  song.  The  fragrance  suggested  that  of 
white  clover,  but  was  more  rank  and  spicy. 

The  woods  about  Moxie  Lake  were  literally  car- 
peted with  linnaea.  I  had  never  seen  it  in  such 
profusion.  In  early  summer,  the  period  of  its 
bloom,  what  a  charming  spectacle  the  mossy  floors 
of  these  remote  woods  must  present!  The  flowers 
are  purple  rose-color,  nodding  and  fragrant.  An- 
other very  abundant  plant  in  these  woods  was  the 
Clintonia  horealis.  Uncle  Nathan  said  it  was 
called  "bear's  corn,"  though  he  did  not  know  why. 
The  only  noticeable  flower  by  the  Maine  roadsides 
at  this  season  that  is  not  common  in  other  parts  of 
the  country  is  the  harebell.  Its  bright  blue,  bell- 
shaped  corolla  shone  out  from  amid  the  dry  grass 
and  Aveeds  all  along  the  route.  It  was  one  of  the, 
most  delicate  roadside  flowers  I  had  ever  seen. 

The  only  new  bird  I  saw  in  Maine  was  the 
pileated  woodpecker,  or  black  "log-cock,"  called  by 
Uncle  Nathan  "woodcock."  I  had  never  before 
seen  or  heard  this  bird,  and  its  loud  cackle  in  the 
woods  about  Moxie  was  a  new  sound  to  me.  It  is 
the  wildest  and  largest  of  our  northern  woodpeckers, 
and  the  rarest.  Its  voice  and  the  sound  of  its 
hammer  are  heard  only  in  the  depths  of  the  north- 
ern woods.  It  is  about  as  large  as  a  crow,  and 
nearly  as  black. 


126  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

We  stayed  a  week  at  Moxie,  or  until  we  became 
surfeited  with  its  trout,  and  had  killed  the  last 
merganser  duck  that  lingered  about  our  end  of  the 
lake.  The  trout  that  had  accumulated  on  our  hands 
we  had  kept  alive  in  a  large  champagne  basket  sub- 
merged in  the  lake,  and  the  morning  we  broke  camp 
the  basket  was  towed  to  the  shore  and  opened ;  and 
after  we  had  feasted  our  eyes  upon  the  superb  spec- 
tacle, every  trout  —  there  were  twelve  or  fifteen, 
some  of  them  two-pounders  —  was  allowed  to  swim 
back  into  the  lake.  They  went  leisurely,  in  couples 
and  in  trios,  and  were  soon  kicking  up  their  heels 
in  their  old  haunts.  I  expect  that  the  divinity 
who  presides  over  Moxie  will  see  to  it  that  every 
one  of  those  trout,  doubled  in  weight,  comes  to  our 
basket  in  the  future. 


V 


VII 

WINTER  NEIGHBORS 

r  1 1HE  country  is  more  of  a  wilderness,  more  of  a 
-*-  wild  solitude,  in  the  winter  than  in  the  sum- 
mer. The  wild  comes  out.  The  urban,  the  culti- 
vated, is  hidden  or  negatived.  You  shall  hardly 
know  a  good  field  from  a  poor,  a  meadow  from  a 
pasture,  a  park  from  a  forest.  Lines  and  boun- 
daries are  disregarded;  gates  and  bar-ways  are 
unclosed;  man  lets  go  his  hold  upon  the  earth; 
title-deeds  are  deep  buried  beneath  the  snow;  the 
best-kept  grounds  relapse  to  a  state  of  nature; 
under  the  pressure  of  the  cold,  all  the  wild  creatures 
become  outlaws,  and  roam  abroad  beyond  their  usual 
haunts.  The  partridge  comes  to  the  orchard  for 
buds;  the  rabbit  comes  to  the  garden  and  lawn; 
the  crows  and  jays  come  to  the  ash-heap  and  corn- 
crib,  the  snow  buntings  to  the  stack  and  to  the  barn- 
yard; the  sparrows  pilfer  from  the  domestic  fowls; 
the  pine  grosbeak  comes  down  from  the  north  and 
shears  your  maples  of  their  buds;  the  fox  prowls 
about  your  premises  at  night;  and  the  red  squirrels 
find  your  grain  in  the  barn  or  steal  the  butternuts 
from  your  attic.  In  fact,  winter,  like  some  great 
calamity,  changes  the  status  of  most  creatures  and 


128  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

sets  them  a.drift.      Winter,   like  poverty,  makes  us 
acquainted  with  strange  bedfellows. 

For  my  part,  my  nearest  approach  to  a  strange 
bedfellow  is  the  little  gray  rabbit  that  has  taken  up 
her  abode  under  my  study  floor.  As  she  spends 
the  day  here  and  is  out  larking  at  night,  she  is  not 
much  of  a  bedfellow,  after  all.  It  is  probable  that 
I  disturb  her  slumbers  more  than  she  does  mine. 
I  think  she  is  some  support  to  me  under  there,  — 
a  silent,  wide-eyed  witness  and  backer;  a  type  of 
the  gentle  and  harmless  in  savage  nature.  She  has 
no  sagacity  to  give  me  or  lend  me,  but  that  soft, 
nimble  foot  of  hers,  and  that  touch  as  of  cotton 
wherever  she  goes,  are  worthy  of  emulation.  I 
think  I  can  feel  her  good-will  through  the  floor, 
and  I  hope  she  can  mine.  When  I  have  a  happy 
thought,  I  imagine  her  ears  twitch,  especially  when 
I  think  of  the  sweet  apple  I  will  place  by  her 
doorway  at  night.  I  wonder  if  that  fox  chanced 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  the  other  night  when  he 
stealthily  leaped  over  the  fence  near  by  and  walked 
along  between  the  study  and  the  house?  How 
clearly  one  could  read  that  it  was  not  a  little  dog 
that  had  passed  there !  There  was  something  fur- 
tive in  the  track;  it  shied  off  away  from  the  house 
and  around  it,  as  if  eying  it  suspiciously;  and  then 
it  had  the  caution  and  deliberation  of  the  fox,  — 
bold,  bold,  but  not  too  bold;  wariness  was  in  every 
footprint.  If  it  had  been  a  little  dog  that  had 
chanced  to  wander  that  way,  when  he  crossed  my 
path  he  would  have  followed  it  up  to  the  barn  and 


WINTER   NEIGHBOKS  129 

have  gone  smelling  around  for  a  bone;  but  this 
sharp,  cautious  track  held  straight  across  all  others, 
keeping  five  or  six  rods  from  the  house,  up  the 
hill,  across  the  highway  toward  a  neighboring  farm- 
stead, with  its  nose  in  the  air,  and  its  eye  and  ear 
alert,  so  to  speak, 

A  winter  neighbor  of  mine,  in  whom  I  am  in- 
terested, and  who  perhaps  lends  me  his  support 
after  his  kind,  is  a  little  red  owl,  whose  retreat  is  in 
the  heart  of  an  old  apple-tree  just  over  the  fence. 
Where  he  keeps  himself  in  spring  and  summer,  I 
do  not  know,  but  late  every  fall,  and  at  intervals 
all  winter,  his  hiding-place  is  discovered  by  the 
jays  and  nuthatches,  and  proclaimed  from  the  tree- 
I  tops  for  the  space  of  half  an  hour  or  so,  with  all 
the  powers  of  voice  they  can  command.  Four  times 
during  one  winter  they  called  me  out  to  behold  this 
little  ogre  feigning  sleep  in  his  den,  sometimes  in 
one  apple-tree,  sometimes  in  another.  Whenever 
I  heard  their  cries,  I  knew  my  neighbor  was  being 
berated.  The  birds  would  take  turns  at  looking  in 
upon  him,  and  uttering  their  alarm-notes.  Every 
jay  within  hearing  would  come  to  the  spot,  and  at 
once  approach  the  hole  in  the  trunk  or  limb,  and 
with  a  kind  of  breathless  eagerness  and  excitement 
take  a  peep  at  the  owl,  and  then  join  the  outcry. 
When  I  approached  they  would  hastily  take  a  final 
look,  and  then  withdraw  and  regard  my  movements 
intently.  After  accustoming  my  eye  to  the  faint 
light  of  the  cavity  for  a  few  moments,  I  could 
usually  make  out  the  owl  at  the  bottom  feigning 


130  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

sleep.  Feigning,  I  say,  because  this  is  what  he 
really  did,  as  I  first  discovered  one  day  when  I  cut 
into  his  retreat  with  the  axe.  The  loud  blows 
and  the  falling  chips  did  not  disturb  him  at  all. 
When  I  reached  in  a  stick  and  pulled  him  over  on 
his  side,  leaving  one  of  his  wings  spread  out,  he 
made  no  attempt  to  recover  himself,  but  lay  among 
the  chips  and  fragments  of  decayed  wood,  like  a 
part  of  themselves.  Indeed,  it  took  a  sharp  eye  to 
distinguish  him.  Not  till  I  had  pulled  him  forth 
by  one  wing,  rather  rudely,  did  he  abandon  his 
trick  of  simulated  sleep  or  death.  Then,  like  a 
detected  pickpocket,  he  was  suddenly  transformed 
into  another  creature.  His  eyes  flew  wide  open, 
his  talons  clutched  my  finger,  his  ears  were  de- 
pressed, and  every  motion  and  look  said,  "Hands 
off,  at  your  peril."  Finding  this  game  did  not 
work,  he  soon  began  to  "play  'possum"  again.  I 
put  a  cover  over  my  study  wood-box  and  kept  him 
captive  for  a  week.  Look  in  upon  him  at  any 
time,  night  or  day,  and  he  was  apparently  wrapped 
in  the  profoundest  slumber;  but  the  live  mice 
which  I  put  into  his  box  from  time  to  time  found 
his  sleep  was  easily  broken;  there  would  be  a  sud- 
den rustle  in  the  box,  a  faint  squeak,  and  then 
silence.  After  a  week  of  captivity  I  gave  him  his 
freedom  in  the  full  sunshine :  no  trouble  for  him  to 
see  which  way  and  where  to  go. 

Just  at  dusk  in  the  winter  nights,  I  often  hear 
his  soft  hur-r-r-r,  very  pleasing  and  bell -like. 
What  a  furtive,   woody  sound  it  is  in  the  winter 


WINTER    NEIGHBORS  131 

stillness,  so  unlike  the  harsh  scream  of  the  hawk! 
But  all  the  ways  of  the  owl  are  ways  of  softness 
and  duskiness.  His  wings  are  shod  with  silence, 
his  plumage  is  edged  with  down. 

Another  owl  neighbor  of  mine,  with  whom  I  pass 
the  time  of  day  more  frequently  than  with  the  last, 
lives  farther  away.  I  pass  his  castle  every  night 
on  my  way  to  the  post-office,  and  in  winter,  if  the 
hour  is  late  enough,  am  pretty  sure  to  see  him 
standing  in  his  doorway,  surveying  the  passers-by 
and  the  landscape  through  narrow  slits  in  his  eyes. 
For  four  successive  winters  now  have  I  observed 
him.  As  the  twilight  begins  to  deepen,  he  rises 
up  out  of  his  cavity  in  the  apple-tree,  scarcely 
faster  than  the  moon  rises  from  behind  the  hill, 
and  sits  in  the  opening,  completely  framed  by  its 
outlines  of  gray  bark  and  dead  wood,  and  by  his 
protective  coloring  virtually  invisible  to  every  eye 
that  does  not  know  he  is  there.  Probably  my  own 
is  the  only  eye  that  has  ever  penetrated  his  secret, 
and  mine  never  would  have  done  so  had  I  not 
chanced  on  one  occasion  to  see  him  leave  his  retreat 
and  make  a  raid  upon  a  shrike  that  was  impaling 
a  shrew-mouse  upon  a  thorn  in  a  neighboring  tree, 
and  which  I  was  watching.  Failing  to  get  the 
mouse,  the  owl  returned  swiftly  to  his  cavity,  and 
ever  since,  while  going  that  way,  I  have  been  on 
the  lookout  for  him.  Dozens  of  teams  and  foot- 
passengers  pass  him  late  in  the  day,  but  he  regards 
them  not,  nor  they  him.  AVhen  I  come  along  and 
pause  to  salute  him,  he  opens  his  eyes  a  little  wider, 


132  SIGNS    AND    SEASONS 

and,  appearing  to  recognize  me,  quickly  shrinks  and 
fades  into  the  background  of  his  door  in  a  very 
weird  and  curious  manner.  When  he  is  not  at  his 
outlook,  or  when  he  is,  it  requires  the  best  powers 
of  the  eye  to  decide  the  point,  as  the  empty  cavity 
itself  is  almost  an  exact  image  of  him.  If  the 
whole  thing  had  been  carefully  studied,  it  could  not 
have  answered  its  purpose  better.  The  owl  stands 
quite  perpendicular,  presenting  a  front  of  light 
mottled  gray;  the  eyes  are  closed  to  a  mere  slit, 
the  ear-feathers  depressed,  the  beak  buried  in  the 
plumage,  and  the  whole  attitude  is  one  of  silent, 
motionless  waiting  and  observation.  If  a  mouse 
should  be  seen  crossing  the  highway,  or  scudding 
over  any  exposed  part  of  the  snowy  surface  in  the 
twilight,  the  owl  would  doubtless  swoop  down  upon 
it.  I  think  the  owl  has  learned  to  distinguish  me 
from  the  rest  of  the  passers-by ;  at  least,  when  I 
stop  before  him,  and  he  sees  himself  observed,  he 
backs  down  into  his  den,  as  I  have  said,  in  a  very 
amusing  manner.  Whether  bluebirds,  nuthatches, 
and  chickadees  —  birds  that  pass  the  night  in  cavi- 
ties of  trees  —  ever  run  into  the  clutches  of  the 
dozing  owl,  I  should  be  glad  to  know.  My  im- 
pression is,  however,  that  they  seek  out  smaller 
cavities.  An  old  willow  by  the  roadside  blew  down 
one  summer,  and  a  decayed  branch  broke  open, 
revealing  a  brood  of  half-fledged  owls,  and  many 
feathers  and  quills  of  bluebirds,  orioles,  and  other 
songsters,  showing  plainly  enough  why  all  birds  fear 
and  berate  the  owl. 


WINTER    NEIGHBORS  133 

The  English  house  sparrows,  which  are  so  rapidly 
increasing  among  us,  and  which  must  add  greatly  to 
the  food  supply  of  the  owls  and  other  birds  of  prey, 
seek  to  baflle  their  enemies  by  roosting  in  the 
densest  evergreens  they  can  find,  in  the  arbor-vitee, 
and  in  hemlock  hedges.  Soft-winged  as  the  owl 
is,  he  cannot  steal  in  upon  such  a  retreat  without 
giving  them  warning. 

These   sparrows    are    becoming    about    the    most 
noticeable  of  my  winter  neighbors,  and  a  troop  of 
them  every  morning  watch  me  put  out  the  hens' 
feed,  and  soon  claim  their  share.      I  rather  encour- 
aged them  in  their   neighborliness,   till  one  day  I 
discovered    the    snow    under    a    favorite    pkim-tree 
where  they  most  frequently  perched  covered  with 
the  scales  of  the  fruit-buds.      On   investigating,    I 
found  that  the  tree  had  been  nearly  stripped  of  its 
buds,  —  a  very  unneighborly  act  on  the  part  of  the 
sparrows,    considering,    too,    all  the  cracked  corn  I 
had  scattered  for  them.      So  I  at  once  served  notice 
on  them  that  our  good  understanding  was  at  an  end. 
And  a  hint  is  as  good  as  a  kick  with  this  bird. 
The  stone  I  hurled  among  them,  and  the  one  with 
which  I  followed  them  up,   may  have  been  taken 
as  a  kick;  but  they  were  only  a  hint  of  the  shot- 
gun that  stood  ready  in  the  corner.      The  sparrows 
left  in  high  dudgeon,  and  were  not  back  again  in 
some   days,    and  were   then   very  shy.      No   doubt 
the  time  is  near  at   hand  when  we  shall  have  to 
wage  serious  war  upon  these  sparrows,  as  they  long 
have  had  to  do  on  the  continent  of  Europe.     And 


134  SIGNS    AND    SEASONS 

yet  it  will  be  hard  to  kill  the  little  wretches,  the 
only  Old  World  bird  we  have.      When  I  take  down 
my  gun  to  shoot  them  I  shall  probably  remember 
that   the  Psalmist   said,    "I   watch,    and   am   as   a 
sparrow  alone  upon  the  housetop,"  and  maybe  the 
recollection  will  cause  me  to  stay  my  hand.      The 
sparrows  have  the  Old  World  hardiness  and  prolific- 
ness;  they  are  wise  and  tenacious  of  life,  and  we 
shall  find  it  by  and  by  no  small  matter  to  keep  them 
in  check.      Our  native  birds  are  much  different,  less 
prolific,  less  shrewd,  less  aggressive  and  persistent, 
less  quick-witted  and  able  to  read  the  note  of  danger 
or  hostility,  —  in  short,  less  sophisticated.     Most  of 
our   birds   are   yet   essentially   wild,    that   is,    little 
changed  by  civilization.     In  winter,  especially,  they 
sweep  by  me  and  around  me  in  flocks,  —  the  Can- 
ada sparrow,  the  snow  bunting,   the  shore  lark,  the 
pine  grosbeak,  the  redpoll,  the  cedar- bird, — feed- 
ing upon  frozen  apples  in  the  orchard,  upon  cedar- 
berries,    upon  maple- buds,    and  the   berries  of   the 
mountain-ash,  and  the  celtis,  and  upon  the  seeds  of 
the  weeds  that  rise  above  the  snow  in  the  field,  or 
upon  the    hayseed   dropped  where    the  cattle  have 
been  foddered  in  the  barnyard  or  about  the  distant 
stack;  but  yet  taking  no  heed  of  man,  in  no  way 
changing  their  habits  so  as  to  take  advantage  of  his 
presence  in  nature.      The  pine  grosbeaks  will  come 
in  numbers  upon  your  porch  to  get  the  black  drupes 
of  the  honeysuckle  or  the  woodbine,  or  within  reach 
of  your  windows  to  get  the  berries  of  the  mountain- 
ash,  but  they  know  you  not;  they  look  at  you  as 


WINTER   NEIGHBORS  135 

innocently  and  unconcernedly  as  at  a  bear  or  moose 
in  their  native  north,  and  your  house  is  no  more 
to  them  than  a  ledge  of  rocks. 

The  only  ones  of  my  winter  neighbors  that  ac- 
tually rap  at  my  door  are  the  nuthatches  and  wood- 
peckers, and  these  do  not  know  that  it  is  my  door. 
My  retreat  is  covered  with  the  bark  of  young  chest- 
nut-trees, and  the  birds,  I  suspect,  mistake  it  for 
a  huge  stump  that  ought  to  hold  fat  grubs  (there 
is  not  even  a  book-worm  inside  of  it),  and  their 
loud  rapping  often  makes  me  think  I  have  a  caller 
indeed.  I  place  fragments  of  hickory-nuts  in  the 
interstices  of  the  bark,  and  thus  attract  the  nut- 
hatches; a  bone  upon  my  window-sill  attracts  both 
nuthatches  and  the  downy  woodpecker.  They  peep 
in  curiously  through  the  window  upon  me,  pecking 
away  at  my  bone,  too  often  a  very  poor  one.  A 
bone  nailed  to  a  tree  a  few  feet  in  front  of  the  win- 
dow attracts  crows  as  well  as  lesser  birds.  Even 
the  slate-colored  snowbird,  a  seed-eater,  comes  and 
nibbles  it  occasionally. 

The  bird  that  seems  to  consider  he  has  the  best 
right  to  the  bone  both  upon  the  tree  and  upon  the 
sill  is  the  downy  woodpecker,  my  favorite  neighbor 
among  the  winter  birds,  to  whom  I  will  mainly 
devote  the  remainder  of  this  chapter.  His  retreat 
is  but  a  few  paces  from  my  own,  in  the  decayed 
limb  of  an  apple-tree  which  he  excavated  several 
autumns  ago.  I  say  "he"  because  the  red  plume 
on  the  top  of  his  head  proclaims  the  sex.  It  seems 
not  to  be  generally  known  to  our  writers  upon  orni- 


136  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

thology  that  certain  of  our  woodpeckers  —  probably 
all  the  winter  residents  —  each  fall  excavate  a  limb 
or  the  trunk  of  a  tree  in  which  to  pass  the  winter, 
and  that  the  cavity  is  abandoned  in  the  spring, 
probably  for  a  new  one  in  which  nidification  takes 
place.  So  far  as  I  have  observed,  these  cavities  are 
drilled  out  only  by  the  males.  Where  the  females 
take  up  their  quarters  I  am  not  so  well  informed, 
though  I  suspect  that  they  use  the  abandoned  holes 
of  the  males  of  the  previous  year. 

The  particular  woodpecker  to  which  I  refer  drilled 
his  first  hole  in  my  apple-tree  one  fall  four  or  five 
years  ago.  This  he  occupied  till  the  following 
spring,  when  he  abandoned  it.  The  next  fall  he 
began  a  hole  in  an  adjoining  limb,  later  than  before, 
and  when  it  was  about  half  completed  a  female  took 
possession  of  his  old  quarters.  I  am  sorry  to  say 
that  this  seemed  to  enrage  the  male  very  much,  and 
he  persecuted  the  poor  bird  whenever  she  appeared 
upon  the  scene.  He  would  fly  at  her  spitefully 
and  drive  her  off.  One  chilly  November  morning, 
as  I  passed  under  the  tree,  I  heard  the  hammer  of 
the  little  architect  in  his  cavity,  and  at  the  same 
time  saw  the  persecuted  female  sitting  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  other  hole  as  if  she  would  fain  come 
out.  She  Avas  actually  shivering,  probably  from 
both  fear  and  cold.  I  understood  the  situation  at 
a  glance;  the  bird  was  afraid  to  come  forth  and 
brave  the  anger  of  the  male.  Not  till  I  had  rapped 
smartly  upon  the  limb  with  my  stick  did  she  come 
out  and  attempt  to  escape;  but  she  had  not  gone 


WINTER   NEIGHBORS  137 

ten  feet  from  the  tree  before  the  male  was  in  hot 
pursuit,  and  in  a  few  moments  had  driven  her  back 
to  the  same  tree,  where  she  tried  to  avoid  him 
among  the  branches.  A  few  days  after,  he  rid  him- 
self of  his  unwelcome  neighbor  in  the  following 
ingenious  manner:  he  fairly  scuttled  the  other  cav- 
ity; he  drilled  a  hole  into  the  bottom  of  it  that  let 
in  the  light  and  the  cold,  and  I  saw  the  female 
there  no  more.  I  did  not  see  him  in  the  act  of 
rendering  this  tenement  uninhabitable;  but  one 
morning,  behold  it  was  punctured  at  the  bottom, 
and  the  circumstances  all  seemed  to  point  to  him  as 
the  author  of  it.  There  is  probably  no  gallantry 
among  the  birds  except  at  the  mating  season.  I 
have  frequently  seen  the  male  woodpecker  drive  the 
female  away  from  the  bone  upon  the  tree.  When 
she  hopped  around  to  the  other  end  and  timidly 
nibbled  it,  he  would  presently  dart  spitefully  at 
her.  She  would  then  take  up  her  position  in  his 
rear  and  wait  till  he  had  finished  his  meal.  The 
position  of  the  female  among  the  birds  is  very  much 
the  same  as  that  of  woman  among  savage  tribes. 
Most  of  the  drudgery  of  life  falls  upon  her,  and  the 
leavings  of  the  males  are  often  her  lot. 

My  bird  is  a  genuine  little  savage,  doubtless,  but 
I  value  him  as  a  neighbor.  It  is  a  satisfaction 
during  the  cold  or  stormy  winter  nights  to  know  he 
is  warm  and  cozy  there  in  his  retreat.  When  the 
day  is  bad  and  unfit  to  be  abroad  in,  he  is  there 
too.  When  I  wish  to  know  if  he  is  at  home,  I  go 
and  rap  upon  his  tree,  and,  if  he  is  not  too  lazy  or 


138  SIGNS  AND   SEASONS 

indifferent,  after  some  delay  he  shows  his  head  in 
his  round  doorway  about  ten  feet  above,  and  looks 
down  inquiringly  upon  me,  —  sometimes  latterly  I 
think  half  resentfully,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  would 
thank  you  not  to  disturb  me  so  often."  After  sun- 
down, he  will  not  put  his  head  out  any  more  when 
I  call,  but  as  I  step  away  I  can  get  a  glimpse  of 
him  inside  looking  cold  and  reserved.  He  is  a  late 
riser,  especially  if  it  is  a  cold  or  disagreeable  morn- 
ing, in  this  respect  being  like  the  barn  fowls ;  it  is 
sometimes  near  nine  o'clock  before  I  see  him  leave 
his  tree.  On  the  other  hand,  he  comes  home  early, 
being  in,  if  the  day  is  unpleasant,  by  four  p.  m. 
He  lives  all  alone;  in  this  respect  I  do  not  com- 
mend his  example.  Where  his  mate  is,  I  should 
like  to  know. 

I  have  discovered  several  other  woodpeckers  in 
adjoining  orchards,  each  of  which  has  a  like  home, 
and  leads  a  like  solitary  life.  One  of  them  has 
excavated  a  dry  limb  within  easy  reach  of  my  hand, 
doing  the  work  also  in  September.  But  the  choice 
of  tree  was  not  a  good  one ;  the  limb  was  too  much 
decayed,  and  the  workman  had  made  the  cavity  too 
large ;  a  chip  had  come  out,  making  a  hole  in  the 
outer  wall.  Then  he  went  a  few  inches  down  the 
limb  and  began  again,  and  excavated  a  large,  com- 
modious chamber,  but  had  again  come  too  near  the 
surface ;  scarcely  more  than  the  bark  protected  him 
in  one  place,  and  the  limb  was  very  much  weak- 
ened. Then  he  made  another  attempt  still  farther 
down  the  limb,  and  drilled  in  an  inch  or  two,  but 


WINTER    NEIGHBORS  139 

seemed  to  change  his  mind;  the  work  stopped, 
and  I  concluded  the  bird  had  wisely  abandoned  the 
tree.  Passing  there  one  cold,  rainy  November  day, 
I  thrust  in  my  two  fingers  and  was  surprised  to  feel  • 
something  soft  and  warm:  as  I  drew  away  my  hand 
the  bird  came  out,  apparently  no  more  surprised 
than  I  was.  It  had  decided,  then,  to  make  its 
home  in  the  old  limb;  a  decision  it  had  occasion  to 
regret,  for  not  long  after,  on  a  stormy  night,  the 
branch  gave  way  and  fell  to  the  ground :  — 

**  When  the  bough  breaks  the  cradle  will  fall, 
And  down  will  come  baby,  cradle  and  all." 

Such  a  cavity  makes  a  snug,  warm  home,  and 
when  the  entrance  is  on  the  under  side  of  the 
limb,  as  is  usual,  the  wind  and  snow  cannot  reach 
the  occupant.  Late  in  December,  while  crossing  a 
high,  wooded  mountain,  lured  by  the  music  of  fox- 
hounds, I  discovered  fresh  yellow  chips  strewing 
the  new-fallen  snow,  and  at  once  thought  of  my 
woodpeckers.  On  looking  around  I  saw  where  one 
had  been  at  work  excavating  a  lodge  in  a  small  yel- 
low birch.  The  orifice  was  about  fifteen  feet  from 
the  ground,  and  appeared  as  round  as  if  struck  with 
a  compass.  It  was  on  the  east  side  of  the  tree,  so 
as  to  avoid  the  prevailing  west  and  northwest  winds. 
As  it  was  nearly  two  inches  in  diameter,  it  could 
not  have  been  the  work  of  the  downy,  but  must 
have  been  that  of  th«  hairy,  or  else  the  yellow- 
bellied  woodpecker.  His  home  had  probably  been 
wrecked  by  some  violent  wind,  and  he  was  thus 
providing  himself  another.      In  digging  out   these 


140  SIGNS  AND   SEASONS 

retreats  the  woodpeckers  prefer  a  dry,  brittle  trunk, 
not  too  soft.  They  go  in  horizontally  to  the  centre 
and  then  turn  downward,  enlarging  the  tunnel  as 
they  go,  till  when  finished  it  is  the  shape  of  a  long, 
deep  pear. 

Another  trait  our  woodpeckers  have  that  endears 
them  to   me,    and   that   has   never   been   pointedly 
noticed  by  our  ornithologists,  is  their  habit  of  drum- 
ming in  the  spring.      They  are  songless  birds,  and 
yet  all  are  musicians ;  they  make  the  dry  limbs  elo- 
quent of  the  coming  change.      Did  you  think  that 
loud,   sonorous    hammering   which   proceeded    from 
the  orchard  or  from  the  near  woods  on  that  still 
March  or  April  morning  was  only  some  bird  getting 
its  breakfast  1     It  is  downy,  but  he  is  not  rapping 
at  the  door  of  a  grub ;  he  is  rapping  at  the  door  of 
spring,  and  the  dry  limb  thrills  beneath  the  ardor 
of  his  blows.      Or,  later  in  the  season,  in  the  dense 
forest  or  by  some  remote  mountain  lake,  does  that 
measured  rhythmic  beat  that  breaks  upon   the   si- 
lence, first  three  strokes  following  each  other  rap- 
idly,   succeeded    by   two    louder   ones   with   longer 
intervals  between  them,  and  that  has  an  eff'ect  upon 
the   alert   ear   as  if   the  solitude  itself  had  at  last 
found   a  voice,  —  does   that  suggest  anything  less 
than   a   deliberate   musical   performance?     In   fact, 
our  woodpeckers  are  just  as  characteristically  drum- 
mers as  is  the  ruffed  grouse,  and  they  have  their 
particular  limbs  and  stubs  to  which  they  resort  for 
that  purpose.     Their  need  of  expression  is  appar- 
ently just  as  great  as  that  of  the  song-birds,  and  it 


WINTER   NEIGHBORS  141 

is  not  surprising  that  they  should  have  found  out 
that  there  is  music  in  a  dry,  seasoned  limb  which 
can  be  evoked  beneath  their  beaks. 

A  few  seasons  ago,  a  downy  woodpecker,  proba- 
bly the  individual  one  who  is  now  my  winter  neigh- 
bor, began  to  drum  early  in  March  in  a  partly  de- 
cayed apple-tree  that  stands  in  the  edge  of  a  narrow 
strip  of  woodland  near  me.  When  the  morning 
was  still  and  mild  I  would  often  hear  him  through 
my  window  before  I  was  up,  or  by  half-past  six 
o'clock,  and  he  would  keep  it  up  pretty  briskly  till 
nine  or  ten  o'clock,  in  this  respect  resembling  the 
grouse,  which  do  most  of  their  drumming  in  the 
forenoon.  His  drum  was  the  stub  of  a  dry  limb 
about  the  size  of  one's  wrist.  The  heart  was  de- 
cayed and  gone,  but  the  outer  shell  was  hard  and 
resonant.  The  bird  would  keep  his  position  there 
for  an  hour  at  a  time.  Between  his  drummings  he 
would  preen  his  plumage  and  listen  as  if  for  the 
response  of  the  female,  or  for  the  drum  of  some 
rival.  How  swift  his  head  would  go  when  he  was 
delivering  his  blows  upon  the  limb !  His  beak  wore 
the  surface  perceptibly.  When  he  wished  to  change 
the  key,  which  was  quite  often,  he  would  shift  his 
position  an  inch  or  two  to  a  knot  which  gave  out 
a  higher,  shriller  note.  When  I  climbed  up  to 
examine  his  drum  he  was  much  disturbed.  I  did 
not  know  he  was  in  the  vicinity,  but  it  seems  he 
saw  me  from  a  near  tree,  and  came  in  haste  to  the 
neighboring  branches,  and  with  spread  plumage  and 
a  sharp   note   demanded   plainly  enough  what   my 


142  SIGNS    AND    SEASONS 

business  was  with  his  drum.  I  was  invading  his 
privacy,  desecrating  his  shrine,  and  the  bird  was 
much  put  out.  After  some  weeks  the  female  ap- 
peared; he  had  literally  drummed  up  a  mate;  his 
urgent  and  oft-repeated  advertisement  was  answered. 
Still  the  drumming  did  not  cease,  but  was  quite  as 
fervent  as  before.  ■  If  a  mate  could  be  won  by 
drumming,  she  could  be  kept  and  entertained  by 
more  drumming;  courtship  should  not  end  with 
marriage.  If  the  bird  felt  musical  before,  of  course 
he  felt  much  more  so  now.  Besides  that,  the 
gentle  deities  needed  propitiating  in  behalf  of  the 
nest  and  young  as  well  as  in  behalf  of  the  mate. 
After  a  time  a  second  female  came,  when  there  was 
war  between  the  two.  I  did  not  see  them  come 
to  blows,  but  I  saw  one  female  pursuing  the  other 
about  the  place,  and  giving  her  no  rest  for  several 
days.  She  was  evidently  trying  to  run  her  out  of 
the  neighborhood.  Now  and  then,  she,  too,  would 
drum  briefly,  as  if  sending  a  triumphant  message  to 
her  mate. 

The  woodpeckers  do  not  each  have  a  particular 
dry  limb  to  which  they  resort  at  all  times  to  drum, 
like  the  one  I  have  described.  The  woods  are  full 
of  suitable  branches,  and  they  drum  more  or  less 
here  and  there  as  they  are  in  quest  of  food ;  yet  I 
am  convinced  each  one  has  its  favorite  spot,  like 
the  grouse,  to  which  it  resorts  especially  in  the 
morning.  The  sugar-maker  in  the  maple-woods 
may  notice  that  this  sound  proceeds  from  the  same 
tree  or  trees  about  his  camp  with  great  regularity. 


WINTER   NEIGHBORS  143 

A  woodpecker  in  my  vicinity  has  drummed  for  two 
seasons  on  a  telegraph  pole,  and  he  makes  the  wires 
and  glass  insulators  ring.  Another  drums  on  a 
thin  board  on  the  end  of  a  long  grape-arbor,  and  on 
still  mornings  can  be  heard  a  long  distance. 

A  friend  of  mine  in  a  Southern  city  tells  me  of 
a  red-headed  woodpecker  that  drums  upon  a  light- 
ning-rod on  his  neighbor's  house.  Nearly  every 
clear,  still  morning  at  certain  seasons,  he  says,  this 
musical  rapping  may  be  heard.  "He  alternates  his 
tapping  with  his  stridulous  call,  and  the  effect  on  a 
cool,  autumn-like  morning  is  very  pleasing." 

The  high-hole  appears  to  drum  more  promiscu- 
ously than  does  downy.  He  utters  his  long,  loud 
spring  call,  whick  —  whick  —  whick  —  ivJiick,  and 
then  begins  to  rap  with  his  beak  upon  his  perch 
before  the  last  note  has  reached  your  ear.  I  have 
seen  him  drum  sitting  upon  the  ridge  of  the  barn. 
The  log-cock,  or  pileated  woodpecker,  the  largest 
and  wildest  of  our  Northern  species,  I  have  never 
heard  drum.      His  blows  should  wake  the  echoes. 

When  the  woodpecker  is  searching  for  food,  or 
laying  siege  to  some  hidden  grub,  the  sound  of  his 
hammer  is  dead  or  muffled,  and  is  heard  but  a  few 
yards.  It  is  only  upon  dry,  seasoned  timber,  freed 
of  its  bark,  that  he  beats  his  reveille  to  spring  and 
wooes  his  mate. 

Wilson  was  evidently  familiar  with  this  vernal 
drumming  of  the  woodpeckers,  but  quite  misinter- 
prets it.  Speaking  of  the  red-bellied  species,  he 
says:   "It  rattles  like  the  rest  of  the  tribe  on  the 


144  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

dead  limbs,  and  with  such  violence  as  to  be  heard 
in  still  weather  more  than  half  a  mile  off;  and  lis- 
tens to  hear  the  insect  it  has  alarmed."  He  listens 
rather  to  hear  the  drum  of  his  rival,  or  the  brief  and 
coy  response  of  the  female;  for  there  are  no  insects 
in  these  dry  limbs. 

On  one  occasion  I  saw  downy  at  his  drum  when 
a  female  flew  quickly  through  the  tree  and  alighted 
a  few  yards  beyond  him.  He  paused  instantly, 
and  kept  his  place  apparently  without  moving  a 
muscle.  The  female,  I  took  it,  had  answered  his 
advertisement.  She  flitted  about  from  limb  to  limb 
(the  female  may  be  known  by  the  absence  of  the 
crimson  spot  on  the  back  of  the  head),  apparently 
full  of  business  of  her  own,  and  now  and  then 
would  drum  in  a  shy,  tentative  manner.  The  male 
watched  her  a  few  moments,  and,  convinced  per- 
haps that  she  meant  business,  struck  up  his  liveli- 
est tune,  then  listened  for  her  response.  As  it  came 
back  timidly  but  promptly,  he  left  his  perch  and 
sought  a  nearer  acquaintance  with  the  prudent 
female.  Whether  or  not  a  match  grew  out  of  this 
little  flirtation  I  cannot  say. 

The  downy  woodpeckers  are  sometimes  accused 
of  injuring  the  apple  and  other  fruit  trees,  but  the 
depredator  is  probably  the  larger  and  rarer  yellow- 
bellied  species.  One  autumn  I  caught  one  of  these 
fellows  in  the  act  of  sinking  long  rows  of  his  little 
wells  in  the  limb  of  an  apple-tree.  There  were 
series  of  rings  of  them,  one  above  another,  quite 
around  the  stem,  some  of  them  the  third  of  an  inch 


WINTER    NEIGHBORS  145 

across.  They  are  evidently  made  to  get  at  the 
tender,  juicy  bark,  or  cambium  layer,  next  to  the 
hard  wood  of  the  tree.  The  health  and  vitality  of 
the  branch  are  so  seriously  impaired  by  them  that 
it  often  dies. 

In  the  following  winter  the  same  bird  (probably) 
tapped  a  maple-tree  in  front  of  my  window  in  fifty- 
six  places;  and  when  the  day  was  sunny,  and  the 
sap  oozed  out,  he  spent  most  of  his  time  there. 
He  knew  the  good  sap-days,  and  was  on  hand 
promptly  for  his  tipple;  cold  and  cloudy  days  he 
did  not  appear.  He  knew  which  side  of  the  tree 
to  tap,  too,  and  avoided  the  sunless  northern  expos- 
ure. When  one  series  of  well-holes  failed  to  sup- 
ply him,  he  would  sink  another,   drilling  through 

the  bark  with  great  ease  and  quickness.  Then, 
when  the  day  was  warm,  and  the  sap  ran  freely,  he 
would  have  a  regular  sugar-maple  debauch,  sitting 
there  by  his  wells  hour  after  hour,  and  as  fast  as 
they  became  filled  sipping  out  the  sap.  This  he 
did  in  a  gentle,  caressing  manner  that  was  very 
suggestive.  He  made  a  row  of  wells  near  the  foot 
of  the  tree,  and  other  rows  higher  up,  and  he  would 
hop  up  and  down  the  trunk  as  these  became  filled. 
He  would  hop  down  the  tree  backward  with  the 
utmost  ease,  throwing  his  tail  outward  and  his  head 
inward  at  each  hop.  When  the  wells  would  freeze 
up  or  his  thirst  become  slaked,  he  would  ruffle  his 
feathers,  draw  himself  together,  and  sit  and  doze 
in  the  sun  on  the  side  of  the  tree.  He  passed  the 
night  in  a  hole  in  an  apple-tree  not  far  off.      He 


146  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

was  evidently  a  young  bird,  not  yet  having  the 
plumage  of  the  mature  male  or  female,  and  yet  he 
knew  which  tree  to  tap  and  where  to  tap  it.  I 
saw  where  he  had  bored  several  maples  in  the 
vicinity,  but  no  oaks  or  chestnuts.  I  nailed  up  a 
fat  bone  near  his  sap-works :  the  downy  woodpecker 
came  there  several  times  a  day  to  dine;  the  nut- 
hatch came,  and  even  the  snowbird  took  a  taste 
occasionally;  but  this  sapsucker  never  touched  it; 
the  sweet  of  the  tree  sufficed  for  him.  This  wood- 
pecker does  not  breed  or  abound  in  my  vicinity; 
only  stray  specimens  are  now  and  then  to  be  met 
with  in  the  colder  months.  As  spring  approached, 
the  one  I  refer  to  took  his  departure. 

I  must  bring  my  account  of  my  neighbor  in  the 
tree  down  to  the  latest  date ;  so  after  the  lapse  of 
a  year  I  add  the  following  notes.  The  last  day  of 
February  was  bright  and  spring-like.  I  heard  the 
first  sparrow  sing  that  morning  and  the  first  scream- 
ing of  the  circling  hawks,  and  about  seven  o'clock 
the  first  drumming  of  my  little  friend.  His  first 
notes  were  uncertain  and  at  long  intervals,  but  by 
and  by  he  warmed  up  and  beat  a  lively  tattoo.  As 
the  season  advanced  he  ceased  to  lodge  in  his  old 
quarters.  I  would  rap  and  find  nobody  at  home. 
Was  he  out  on  a  lark,  I  said,  the  spring  fever 
working  in  his  blood  ?  After  a  time  his  drumming 
grew  less  frequent,  and  finally,  in  the  middle  of 
April,  ceased  entirely.  Had  some  accident  befallen 
him,  or  had  he  wandered  away  to  fresh  fields,  fol- 
lowing some   siren   of   his   species?     Probably   the 


WINTER   NEIGHBORS  147 

latter.  Another  bird  that  I  had  under  observation 
also  left  his  winter- quarters  in  the  spring.  This, 
then,  appears  to  be  the  usual  custom.  The  wrens 
and  the  nuthatches  and  chickadees  succeed  to  these 
abandoned  cavities,  and  often  have  amusing  disputes 
over  them.  The  nuthatches  frequently  pass  the 
night  in  them,  and  the  wrens  and  chickadees  nest 
in  them.  I  have  further  observed  that  in  excavat- 
ing a  cavity  for  a  nest  the  downy  woodpecker 
makes  the  entrance  smaller  than  when  he  is  excavat- 
ing his  winter- quarters.  This  is  doubtless  for  the 
greater  safety  of  the  young  birds. 

The  next  fall  the  downy  excavated  another  limb 
in  the  old  apple-tree,  but  had  not  got  his  retreat 
quite  finished  when  the  large  hairy  woodpecker  ap- 
peared upon  the  scene.  I  heard  his  loud  click, 
click,  early  one  frosty  November  morning.  There 
was  something  impatient  and  angry  in  the  tone  that 
arrested  my  attention.  I  saw  the  bird  fly  to  the 
tree  where  downy  had  been  at  work,  and  fall  with 
great  violence  upon  the  entrance  to  his  cavity. 
The  bark  and  the  chips  flew  beneath  his  vigorous 
blows,  and,  before  I  fairly  woke  up  to  what  he  was 
doing,  he  had  completely  demolished  the  neat,  round 
doorAvay  of  downy.  He  had  made  a  large,  ragged 
opening,  large  enough  for  himself  to  enter.  I  drove 
him  away  and  my  favorite  came  back,  but  only  to 
survey  the  ruins  of  his  castle  for  a  moment  and 
then  go  away.  He  lingered  about  for  a  day  or  two 
and  then  disappeared.  The  big  hairy  usurper  passed 
a  night  in  the  cavity ;  but  on  being  hustled  out  of 


148  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

it  the  next  night  by  me,  he  also  left,  but  not  till 
he  had  demolished  the  entrance  to  a  cavity  in  a 
neighboring  tree  where  downy  and  his  mate  had 
reared  their  brood  that  summer,  and  where  I  had 
hoped  the  female  would  pass  the  winter. 


VIII 

A  SALT   BREEZE 

"TTTHElSr  one  first  catches  the  smell  of  the  sea, 
W     iiis  lungs  seem  involuntarily  to  expand,  the 
same  as  they  do  when  he  steps  into  the  open  air 
after  long  confinement  indoors.      On  the  beach  he 
is  simply  emerging  into  a  larger  and  more  primitive 
out-of-doors.      There  before  him  is  aboriginal  space, 
and  the  breath  of  it  thrills  and  dilates  his  body. 
He  stands  at  the  open  door  of  the  continent  and 
eagerly  drinks  the  large  air.      This  breeze  savors  of 
the  original  element;  it  is  a  breath  out  of  the  morn- 
ing of  the  world,  —bitter,  but  so  fresh  and  tonic! 
He  has  taken  salt  grossly  and  at  second-hand  all  his 
days;  now  let  him  inhale  it  at  the  fountain-head, 
and  let  its  impalpable  crystals  penetrate  his  spirit, 
and  prick  and  chafe  him  into  new  activity. 

We  Americans  are  great  eaters  of  salt,  probably 
the  largest  eaters  of  salt  and  drinkers  of  water  of 
any  of  the  civilized  peoples;  the  amount  of  the 
former  consumed  annually  per  capita  being  more 
than  double  the  amount  consumed  in  England  and 
on  the  Continent;  and  the  quantity  of  water  (with 
ice  in  it)  we  drink  is  in  still  greater  proportions. 
Our  dry  climate  calls  for  the  water,  and  probably 


150  SIGNS    AND   SEASONS 

our  nervous,  dyspeptic  tendencies  for  the  salt. 
Hence  our  need,  as  a  people,  of  that  great  tonic  and 
sedative,  the  seashore.  In  Biblical  times,  new- 
born babies  were  rubbed  with  salt.  I  suppose  it 
stimulated  them  and  quickened  their  circulation. 
American  babies  are  not  thus  rubbed,  and  there 
comes  a  time  with  most  of  us  when  we  feel  that 
the  operation  cannot  be  put  off  any  longer,  and  we 
rush  down  to  the  sea  to  have  the  service  performed 
by  the  old  nurse  herself,  and  the  pores  of  both 
mind  and  body  well  cleansed  and  opened. 

Nothing  about  the  sea  is  more  impressive  than 
its  ceaseless  rocking.  Without  either  wind  or  tide, 
it  would  probably  be  restless  and  oscillating,  be- 
cause it  registers  and  passes  along  the  fluctuations 
of  the  earthy  crust.  The  solid  ground  is  only  rela- 
tively solid.  The  scientists,  under  the  direction  of 
the  British  Association,  who  sought  to  determine 
the  influence  of  the  moon  upon  the  earth's  crust, 
found,  as  soon  as  their  instruments  were  delicate 
enough  to  register  the  influence  of  that  body,  many 
other  agencies  at  work.  They  could  find  no  really 
solid  sjDot  to  plant  their  instruments  upon.  Thus, 
over  the  area  of  a  high  barometer,  the  earth's  crust 
bent  beneath  the  weight  of  the  column  of  air.  At 
sea  the  waters  are  pressed  down.  The  waves  of 
the  atmospheric  ocean,  as  they  sweep  around  the 
earth  in  vast  alternations,  cause  both  land  and 
water  to  rise  and  fall  as  beneath  the  tread  of  some 
striding  Colossus.  This  unequal  barometric  pres- 
sure  over   the   Atlantic   area   would,    doubtless,    of 


A    SALT   BKEEZE  151 

itself  keep  its  equilibrium  perpetually  disturbed. 
Thus,  "the  cradle  endlessly  rocking,"  of  which  our 
poet  sings,  is  not  only  bestrode  by  the  winds  and 
swung  by  the  punctual  hand  of  the  tides,  but  the 
fairest  summer  weather  gives  it  a  nudge,  and  the 
bending  floor  beneath  it  contributes  an  impulse. 
Its  rocking  is  secured  beyond  peradventure.  Dar- 
win seems  to  think  it  is  the  cradle  where  the  pri- 
mordial life  of  the  globe  had  its  infancy,  —  a  conclu- 
sion of  science   anticipated   by  an   old  Greek  poet 

who  said,  — 

"  Ocean,  father  of  gods  and  men." 

Whether  or  not  it  rocked  man,  or  the  germ  of  man, 
into  being,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  it  will 
continue  to  rock  after  he  and  all  things  else  are 
wrapped  in  the  final  sleep. 

Its  grandest  swing,  I  found  during  a  couple  of 
weeks'  sojourn  upon  the  coast,  is  often  upon  a  fair 
day.  Local  winds  and  storms  make  it  spiteful  and 
angry.  They  break  up  and  scatter  the  waves;  but 
some  quiet  morning  you  saunter  down  to  the  beach 
and  find  the  sea  beating  its  long  roll.  The  waves 
run  parallel  to  the  shore  and  come  in  with  great 
regularity  and  deliberation,  falling  upon  it  in  a  suc- 
cession of  long,  low  cataracts,  and  you  realize  the 
force  of  the  Homeric  epithet,  "the  far- resounding 
sea."  It  is  a  sort  of  prostrate  Niagara  expiring 
in  intermittent  torrents.  Often  there  is  a  marked 
explosion  from  the  compression  of  the  air  in  the 
hollow  cylinder  of  the  curling  wave.  These  long 
swells  are  of  the  character  of  those  which  in  the 


152  SIGNS  AND   SEASONS 

Hudson  follow  the  passage  of  one  of  the  great 
steamers,  —  large,  measured,  uniform.  Something 
here  has  passed,  probably  a  cyclone  far  at  sea;  and 
these  breakers,  with  their  epic  swing,  are  the  echo 
of  its  retreating  footsteps. 

Nothing  is  more  singular  and  unexpected  to 
the  landsman  than  the  combing  of  the  waves,  —  a 
momentary  perpendicular  or  incurving  wall  of  water, 
a  few  yards  from  shore,  with  other  water  spilling 
or  pouring  over  it  as  over  a  milldam,  thus  exhib- 
iting for  an  instant  a  clear,  perfectly-formed  cata- 
ract. But  instantly  the  wall  crumbles,  or  is  crushed 
down,  and  in  place  of  it  there  is  a  wild  caldron  of 
foaming,  boiling  water  and  sand. 

There  seems  to  be  something  more  cosmic,  or  shall 
I  say  astronomic,  in  the  sea  than  in  the  shore.  Here 
you  behold  the  round  back  of  the  globe:  the  lines 
are  planetary.  You  feel  that  here  is  the  true  sur- 
face of  the  sphere,  the  curving,  delicate  sides  of 
this  huge  bubble.  On  the  land,  amid  the  wrinkles 
of  the  hills,  you  have  place,  fixedness,  locality,  a 
nook  in  the  chimney-corner;  but  upon  the  sea  you 
are  literally  adrift;  place  is  not,  boundaries  are  not, 
space  is  vacant.  You  are  upon  the  smooth  disk 
of  the  planet,  like  a  man  bestriding  the  moon. 
Under  your  feet  runs  the  line  of  the  earth's  rotund- 
ity, and  round  about  you  the  same  curve  bounds 
your  vision. 

Then  the  sea  brings  us  nearer  that  time  when 
the  earth  was  without  form  and  void,  —  a  vast, 
shoreless,   and  therefore  voiceless,    sea.      You  look 


A   SALT  BREEZE  153 

upon  the  youth  of  the  world;  there  is  no  age,  no 
change,  no  decay  here.  It  is  older  than  the  conti- 
nents, and,  in  a  measure,  their  creator.  That  it 
should  devour  them  again,  like  Saturn  his  children, 
only  adds  to  our  sense  of  its  mystery  and  power. 

The  sea  is  another  firmament.  The  land  is  fugi- 
tive: it  abides  not.  Vast  areas  have  been  scalped 
by  the  winds  and  the  rains;  but  the  sea,  whose  law 
is  mutation,  changes  not,  —  type  of  fickleness  and 
instability ;  yet  the  granite  crumbles,  and  it  remains 
the  same.  The  semicircle  that  bounds  your  view 
seaward,  and  that  travels  with  you  along  the  beach, 
a  vast,  liquid  crescent  or  half-moon,  upon  the  inner, 
jagged  edge  of  which  you  stand,  is  the  type  of  that 
which  changes  not,  which  neither  ends  nor  begins, 
and  into  which  all  form  and  all  being  merge. 

This  is  a  part  of  the  vague  fascination  of  the 
shore;  'tis  the  boundary  of  two  worlds.  With 
your  feet  upon  the  present,  you  confront  aboriginal 
time  and  space.  If  we  could  reach  the  point  in  the 
horizon  where  the  earth  and  sky  meet,  we  might 
find  the  same  fascination  there.  In  the  absence  of 
this  the  best  substitute  is  the  beach. 

We  seem  to  breathe  a  larger  air  on  the  coast.  It 
is  the  place  for  large  types,  large  thoughts.  'Tis 
not  farms,  or  a  township,  we  see  now,  but  God's 
own  domain.  Possession,  ownership,  civilization, 
boundary  lines  cease,  and  there  within  reach  is  a 
clear  page  of  terrestrial  space,  as  unmarred  and  as 
unmarrable  as  if  plucked  from  the  sidereal  heavens. 

How  inviting  and  adventurous   the   ships   look. 


154  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

dropping  behind  the  rim  of  the  horizon,  or  gently 
blown  along  its  edge,   their  yard-arms  pointing  to 
all  quarters  of  the  globe !     Mystery,  adventure,  the 
promise  of  unknown  lands,  beckon  to  us  from  the 
full- rigged  ships.      One  does  not  see  them  come  or 
depart ;  they  dawn  upon  him  like  his  own  thoughts, 
some  dim  and  shadowy,  just  hovering  on  the  verge 
of  consciousness,  others  white  and  full,  a  solace  to 
the  eye.      But  presently,    while  you   ponder,   they 
are  gone,   or  else  vaguely  notch   the   horizon  line. 
Illusion,    enchantment,    hover    over   the   sail-ships. 
They  have  the  charm  of  the  ancient  world  of  fable 
and  romance.      They  are  blown  by  Homeric  winds. 
They  are  a  survival  from  the  remotest  times.      But 
yonder  comes  a  black  steamship,  cutting  across  this 
enchanted  circle  in  defiance  of  wind  and  tide ;  this 
is  the  modern  world  snubbing   and  dispelling  our 
illusions,  and  putting  our  poets  to  flight. 

But  the  veritable  oceanic  brine  there  before 
one,  the  continental,  primordial,  original  liquid,  the 
hoary,  eternal  sea  itself,  —  what  can  a  lover  of 
fields  and  woods  make  of  it  ?  None  of  the  charms 
or  solacements  of  birds  and  flowers  here,  or  of  rural 
sights  and  sounds;  no  repose,  no  plaintiveness,  no 
dumb  companionship ;  but  a  spirit  threatening,  hun- 
gering, remorseless,  decoying,  fascinating,  serpen- 
tine, rebelling  and  forever  rebelling  against  the  fiat, 
"  Thus  far  shalt  thou  come,  and  no  farther. "  The 
voice  of  the  sea  is  unlike  any  other  sound  in  nature ; 
more  riant  and  chafing  than  any  roar  of  woods  or 
storms.      One  never  ceases  to  hear  the  briny,  rimy, 


A   SALT  BEEEZE  155 

weltering  quality,  —  it  is  salt  to  the  ear  no  less 
than  to  the  smell.  One  fancies  he  hears  the  fric- 
tion and  clashing  of  the  invisible  crystals.  A 
shooting  avalanche  of  snow  might  have  this  frosty, 
beaded,  anfractuous  sound.  The  sands  and  pebbles 
and  broken  shells  have  something  to  do  with  it; 
but  without  these  that  threatening,  serrated  edge 
remains,  —  the  grainy,  saline  voice  of  the  sea. 

'T  is  a  pity  the  fabulous  sea-serpent  is  not  a  real- 
ity.    The  sea  seems  to  imply  such  a  monster,  swim- 
ming as  a  leech  swims,  with  vertical  undulations, 
splitting  the  waves,  or  reposing  across  them  in  vast 
scaly  coils.      There  is  something  in  the  sea  that  fills 
the   imagination   of   men  with  the  image  of  these 
things.      The   sea-serpent   will   always   be   seen   by 
somebody,   because  the  sea  itself  is  serpentine,  — 
a    writhing,    crawling,    crested,    glistening    saurian 
with  the  globe  in  its  embrace.      How  it  rises   up 
and  darts  upon  you !     In  storms,  its  breath  blackens 
and  blights   the   shore   vegetation;   it   devours   the 
beach  and  disgorges  it  again,    and  piles  the  shore 
with  foam,  like  masses  of  unwashed  wool.      Often 
a  hissing,  sibilant  sound  seems  to  issue  from  under 
the  edge  of  the  bursting  wave.      Then  that  ever- 
recurring  rustle  calls  up  a  vision  of  some  scaly  mon- 
ster uncoiling   or    measuring    its    length   upon   the 
sands.      I  was  told  of  two  girls,   in  bathing- suits, 
sitting  upon   the   beach,    where   the  waves,    which 
were  running  very  high,   reached  them  with  only 
their   laced  and  embroidered  edges;  then,   as  if  it 
had  been  getting  ready  for  a  spring,  a  huge  wave 


156  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

rushed  up  and  snatched  them  both  into  the  sea, 
and  they  were  drowned.  In  a  few  days  the  body 
of  one  was  cast  up,  but  the  other  was  never  seen 
again.  Such  fawning,  such  treachery,  are  in  the 
waves. 

The  sea  shifts  its  pillow  like  an  uneasy  sleeper. 
The  contour  of  the  beach  is  seldom  two  days  alike; 
that  round,  smooth  bolster  of  sand  is  at  times  very 
prominent.  The  waves  stroke  and  caress  it,  and 
slide  their  delicate  sea-draperies  over  it,  as  if  they 
were  indeed  making  their  bed.  When  you  walk 
there  again  it  is  gone,  carried  down  under  the 
waves,  and  the  beach  is  low  and  naked. 

Both  the  sight  and  the  sound  of  the  waves  fill 
the  mind  with  images.  One  thinks  of  rockets, 
windrows,  embroideries.  How  they  lift  themselves 
up  and  grow  tall  as  they  approach  the  shore !  They 
are  entering  shallower  water,  they  are  running 
aground,  and  they  rise  up  like  vessels. 

I  saw  little  in  the  waves  that  suggested  steeds, 
but  more  that  reminded  of  huge  sheep.  At  times 
they  would  come  wallowing  ashore  precisely  like  a 
great  flock  or  mob  of  woolly-headed  sheep;  the 
wave  breaks  far  out,  and  then  comes  that  rushing 
line  of  tossing,  leaping  woolly  heads  and  shoulders, 
diminishing  as  it  comes,  and  leaving  the  space  be- 
hind it  strewn  with  foam.  Sometimes  the  waves 
look  like  revolving  cylindrical  knives,  carving  the 
coast.  Then  they  thrust  up  their  thin,  crescent- 
shaped  edges,  like  reapers,  reaping  only  shells  and 
sand;  yet  one  seems  to  hear  the  hiss   of   a  great 


A   SALT   BREEZE  157 

sickle,  the  crackle  of  stubble,  the  rustle  of  sheaves, 
and  the  screening  of  grain.  Then  again  there  is 
mimic  thunder  as  the  waves  burst,  followed  by  a 
sound  like  the  downpouring  of  torrents  of  rain. 
How  it  shovels  the  sand  and  sifts  and  washes  it 
forever !  Every  particle  of  silt  goes  seaward ;  it  is 
the  earth-pollen  with  which  the  sunken  floors  of 
the  sea  are  deeply  covered.  What  material  for 
future  continents,  new  worlds  and  new  peoples,  is 
hoarded  within  its  sunless  depths!  How  Darwin 
longed  to  read  the  sealed  book  of  the  earth's  his- 
tory that  lies  buried  beneath  the  sea!  He  thought 
it  probable  that  the  first  continents  were  there; 
that  the  areas  of  elevation  and  of  subsidence  had 
changed  places  in  the  remote  past. 

Turning  over  the  collections  of  sea- poetry  in  the 
libraries,  it  is  rare  enough  to  find  a  line  or  a  stanza 
with  the  real  savor  of  the  shore  in  it.  'T  is  mostly 
fresh-water  poetry,  very  pretty,  often  spirited  and 
frothy,  but  seldom  gritty,  saline,  and  elemental. 
That  bearded,  bristling,  savage  quality  of  the  sea, 
to  which  I  have  referred,  you  shall  hardly  find 
hinted  at,  except,  perhaps,  in  Whitman,  who  is 
usually  ignored  in  these  anthologies.  Tennyson's 
touches,  as  here  and  there  in  "Sea-Dreams,"  always 
satisfy,  and  one  chafes  that  Shakespeare  should  have 
left  so  little  on  the  subject. 

The  poets  make  a  dead  set  at  the  vastness, 
power,  and  terror  of  the  sea,  and  take  their  fill  of 
these  aspects  of  it.  'Tis  an  easy  theme,  and  soon 
wearies.      We  crave  the  verse  that  shall  give  us  the 


158  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

taste  of  the  salt  spray  upon  our  lips.  Bryant's 
hymn  to  the  sea  is  noble  and  stately,  but  it  is 
only  his  forest  hymn  shifted  to  the  shore.  It 
touches  the  same  chords.  It  has  no  marine  quality 
or  atmosphere.  The  bitterness  and  the  sweetness 
of  the  sea,  as  of  a  celestial  dragon  devouring  and 
purifying,  are  not  in  it.  The  poet  wings  his  lofty 
flight  above  sea  and  shore  alike.  When  Emerson 
sings  of  the  sea,  there  is  more  savor,  more  tonic 
air,  a  closer  and  stronger  hold  upon  the  subject; 
but  even  he  takes  refuge  in  the  vastness  of  his 
theme,  and  speaks  through  the  imperial  voice  of  the 
sea :  — 

"  I  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear,  the  chiding  Sea 
Say,  Pilgrim,  why  so  late  and  slow  to  come  ? 
Am  I  not  always  here,  th}^  summer  home  ? 
Is  not  my  voice  thy  music,  morn  and  eve, 
My  breath  thy  healthful  climate  in  the  heats, 
My  touch  thy  antidote,  my  bay  thy  bath  ? 
Was  ever  building  like  my  terraces  ? 
Was  ever  couch  magnificent  as  mine  ?  " 

There  are  strong  lines  in  Eossetti's  "  Sea  Limits," 
but,  like  the  others,  it  is  a  far-off  idealization  of 
the  subject,  and  does  not  bring  one  nearer  the  sea. 

Ther3  are  occasionally  good  descriptive  lines  in 
Miller,  as 

"  I  crossed  the  hilly  sea." 
And  again,  — 

"The  ships,  black-bellied,  climb  the  sea." 

There  is  something  fresh  and  inviting  in  this 
comparison :  — 

"As  pure  as  sea-washed  sands." 


A   SALT   BREEZE  159 

But  when  the  poet  of  the  Sierras  places  old  Nep- 
tune on  the  anxious  bench,  in  this  wise,  — 

"  Behold  the  ocean  on  the  beach 
Kneel  lowly  down  as  if  in  praj'er; 
I  hear  a  moan  as  of  despair, 
While  far  at  sea  do  toss  and  reach 
Some  things  so  like  white  pleading  hands," 

one  has  serious  qualms. 

The  breakers  usually  suggest  to  the  poets  rearing 
and  plunging  steeds,  as  in  Arnold :  — 

"Now  the  wild  white  horses  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray," 

and  Stedman's  spirited  poem,  "Surf,"  makes  use  of 
the  same  image.  Byron,  in  "Childe  Harold,"  lays 
his  hand  upon  the  "  mane  "  of  the  ocean.  Whitman, 
recalling  the  shapes  and  sounds  of  the  shore  by 
moonlight,  startles  the  imagination  with  this  line :  — 
"  The  white  arms  out  in  the  breakers  tirelessly  tossing." 
One  of  our  poets  —  Taylor,  I  think  —  has  applied 
the  epithet  "chameleon"  to  the  sea,  — "the  chame- 
leon sea, "  —  which  fits  well,  for  the  sea  takes  on 
all  hues  and  tints.  To  the  genial  Autocrat  the 
sea  is  "  feline  "  and  treacherous,  —  something  of 
the  crouching  and  leaping  tiger  in  it.  The  poet  of 
"The  New  Day,"  as  a  foil  to  his  love  and  admira- 
tion for  it,  calls  it  "the  accursed  sea."  There  is 
sea-salt  in  Whitman's  poetry,  strongly  realistic  epi- 
thets and  phrases,  that  had  their  birth  upon  the 
shore,  and  that  perpetually  recur  to  one  as  he  sauja- 
ters  on  the  beach.  He  uses  the  word  "rustling" 
and  the  phrase  "hoarse  and  sibilant"  to  describe 
the  sound  of  the  waves.      "The  husky-voiced  sea" 


160  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

expresses   the   saline  quality   to  which  I  have  re- 
ferred :  — 

"  Sea  of  stretch'd  ground-swells, 

Sea  breathing  broad  and  convulsive  breaths, 

Sea  of  the  brine  of  life,  and  of  unshovell'd  yet  always  ready 

graves, 
Howler  and  scooper  of  storms,  capricious  and  dainty  sea, 
I  am  integral  with  you  ;  I  too  am  of   one  phase  and  of  all 
phases." 

"  Oh,  madly  the  sea  pushes  upon  the  land. 
With  love,  with  love." 

Or  this,  written  upon  the  beach  at  Ocean  Grove 

in  1883,  — 

"With  husky-haughty  lips,  0  Sea! 

Where  day  and  night  I  wend  thy  surf-beat  shore. 

Imaging  to  my  sense  thy  varied  strange  suggestions, 

The  troops  of  white-maned  racers  racing  to  the  goal, 

Thy  ample  smiling  face,  dash'd  with  the  sparkling  dimples  of 

the  sun, 
Thy  brooding  scowl  and  murk —thy  unloos'd  hurricanes, 
Thy  unsubduedness,  caprices,  wilfuhiess; 
Great  as  thou  art  above  the  rest,  thy  many  tears  —  a  lack  from 

all  eternity  in  thy  content, 
(Naught  but  the  greatest  struggles,  MTongs,  defeats,  could  make 

thee  greatest  —  no  less  could  make  thee,) 
Thy  lonely  state  —  something  thou  ever  seek'st  and  seek'st,  yet 

never  gain'st. 
Surely  some  right  withheld  —  some  voice,  in  huge  monotonous 

rage,  of  freedom-lover  pent, 
Some  vast  heart,  like  a  planet's,  chain'd  and  chafing  in  those 

breakers. 
By  lengthen'd  swell,  and  spasm,  and  panting  breath, 
And  rhythmic  rasping  of  thy  sands  and  waves. 
And  serpent  hiss,  and  savage  peals  of  laughter. 
And  undertones  of  distant  lion  roar, 
(Sounding,  appealing  to  the  sky's  deaf  ear  — but  now,  rapport 

for  once, 
A  phantom  in  the  night  thy  confidant  for  once,) 
The  first  and  last  confession  of  the  globe, 
Outsurging,  muttering  from  thy  soul's  abysms, 
The  tale  of  cosmic  elemental  passion. 
Thou  tellest  to  a  kindred  soul." 


A   SALT    BREEZE  161 

Whitman  is  essentially  of  the  shore ;  his  bearded, 
aboriginal  quality,  —  something  in  his  words  that 
smites  and  chafes,  a  tonic  like  salt  air,  not  sweet,  but 
dilating;  his  irregular,  flowing,  repeating,  elliptical 
lines;  his  sense  of  space,  and  constant  reference  to 
the  earth  and  the  orbs  as  standards  and  symbols. 
His  poems  are  rarely  architectural  or  sculpturesque, 
either  to  the  eye  or  mind;  no  carving  and  shaping 
for  merely  art's  sake;  but  floating,  drifting,  surging 
masses  of  concrete  events  and  images,  more  or  less 
nebular,  protoplasmic,  and  preliminary,  but  always 
potent  and  alive,  and  full  of  the  salt  of  the  earth, 
holding  in  solution  as  no  other  poet  does  his  times 
and  country. 

The  sea  is  the  great  purifier  and  equalizer  of 
climes,  the  great  canceler,  leveler,  distributer,  neu- 
tralizer,  and  sponge  of  oblivion.  What  a  cemetery, 
and  yet  what  healing  in  its  breath !  What  a  desert, 
and  yet  what  plenty  in  its  depths!  How  destruc- 
tive, and  yet  the  continents  are  its  handiwork. 

"  Sea,  full  of  food,  the  nourisher  of  kinds, 
Purgerof  earth,  and  medicine  of  men." 

And  yet  famine  and  thirst,  dismay  and  death, 
stalk  the  wave.  Contradictory,  multitudinous  sea! 
the  despoiler  and  yet  the  renewer;  barren  as  a  rock, 
yet  as  fruitful  as  a  field ;  old  as  Time,  and  young 
as  to-day;  merciless  as  Fate,  and  tender  as  Love; 
the  fountain  of  all  waters,  yet  mocking  its  victims 
with  the  most  horrible  thirst;  smiting  like  a  ham- 
mer, and  caressing  like  a  lady's  palm;  falling  upon 
the  shore  like  a  wall  of  rock,  then  creeping  up  the 


162  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

sands  as  with  the  rustle  of  an  infant's  drapery; 
cesspool  of  the  continents,  yet  "creating  a  sweet 
clime  by  its  breath ; "  pit  of  terrors,  gulf  of  despair, 
caldron  of  hell,  yet  health,  power,  beauty,  enchant- 
ment, dwell  forever  with  the  sea. 


I 


IX 

A  SPRING  RELISH 

T  is  a  little  remarkable  how  regularly  severe  and 
mild  winters  alternate  in  our  climate  for  a  series 
of  years,  —  a  feminine  and  a  masculine  one,   as  it 
were,  almost  invariably  following  each  other.    Every 
other  season  now  for  ten  years  the  ice -gatherers  on 
the  river  have  been  disappointed  of  a  full  harvest, 
and  every  other  season  the  ice  has  formed  from  fif- 
teen to  twenty  inches  thick.      From  1873  to  1884 
there  was  no  marked  exception  to  this  rule.      But 
in  the  last-named  year,  when,  according  to  the  suc- 
cession, a  mild  winter  was  due,  the  breed  seemed 
to  have  got  crossed,  and  a  sort  of  mongrel  winter 
was  the  result;  neither  mild  nor  severe,  but  very 
stormy,  capricious,  and  disagreeable,  with  ice  a  foot 
thick  on  the  river.      The  winter  which  followed, 
that  of    1884-85,    though   slow  and    hesitating    at 
first,  fully  proved  itself  as  belonging  to  the  mascu- 
line order.      The  present  winter  of  1885-86  shows 
a  marked  return  to  the  type  of  two  years  ago,  less 
hail  and  snow,   but  by  no  means  the  mild  season 
that  was  due.      By  and  by,  probably,  the  meteorolo- 
gical influences  will  get  back  into  the  old  ruts  again, 
and  we  shall  have  once  more  the  regular  alternation 


164  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

of  mild  and  severe  winters.  During  very  open  win- 
ters, like  that  of  1879-80,  nature  in  my  latitude, 
eighty  miles  north  of  New  York,  hardly  shuts  up 
house  at  all.  That  season  I  heard  a  little  piping 
frog  on  the  7th  of  December,  and  on  the  18th  of 
January,  in  a  spring  run,  I  saw  the  common  bull- 
frog out  of  his  hibernaculum,  evidently  thinking  it 
was  spring.  A  copperhead  snake  was  killed  here 
about  the  same  date;  caterpillars  did  not  seem  to 
retire,  as  they  usually  do,  but  came  forth  every 
warm  day.  The  note  of  the  bluebird  was  heard 
nearly  every  week  all  winter,  and  occasionally  that 
of  the  robin.  Such  open  winters  make  one  fear 
that  his  appetite  for  spring  will  be  blunted  when 
spring  really  does  come;  but  he  usually  finds  that 
the  April  days  have  the  old  relish.  April  is  that 
part  of  the  season  that  never  cloys  upon  the  palate. 
It  does  not  surfeit  one  with  good  things,  but  pro- 
vokes and  stimulates  the  curiosity.  One  is  on  the 
alert,  there  are  hints  and  suggestions  on  every  hand. 
Something  has  just  passed,  or  stirred,  or  called,  or 
breathed,  in  the  open  air  or  in  the  ground  about, 
that  we  would  fain  know  more  of.  May  is  sweet, 
but  April  is  pungent.  There  is  frost  enough  in  it 
to  make  it  sharp,  and  heat  enough  in  it  to  make  it 
quick. 

In  my  walks  in  April,  I  am  on  the  lookout  for 
watercresses.  It  is  a  plant  that  has  the  pungent 
April  flavor.  In  many  parts  of  the  country  the 
watercress  seems  to  have  become  completely  natural- 
ized,  and  is  essentially  a  wild  plant.      I  found  it 


A   SPRING   RELISH  165 

one  day  in  a  springy  place,  on  the  top  of  a  high, 
wooded  mountain,  far  from  human  habitation.  We 
gathered  it  and  ate  it  with  our  sandwiches.  Where 
the  walker  cannot  find  this  salad,  a  good  substitute 
may  be  had  in  our  native  spring  cress,  which  is  also 
in  perfection  in  April.  Crossing  a  wooded  hill  in 
the  regions  of  the  Catskills  on  the  15th  of  the 
month,  I  found  a  purple  variety  of  the  plant,  on 
the  margin  of  a  spring  that  issued  from  beneath  a 
ledge  of  rocks,  just  ready  to  bloom.  I  gathered 
the  little  white  tubers,  that  are  clustered  like  mini- 
ature potatoes  at  the  root,  and  ate  them,  and  they 
were  a  surprise  and  a  challenge  to  the  tongue;  on 
the  table  they  would  well  fill  the  place  of  mustard, 
and  horseradish,  and  other  appetizers.  When  I 
was  a  schoolboy,  we  used  to  gather,  in  a  piece  of 
woods  on  our  way  to  school,  the  roots  of  a  closely 
allied  species  to  eat  with  our  lunch.  But  we  gen- 
erally ate  it  up  before  lunch-time.  Our  name  for 
this  plant  was  "Crinkle-root."  The  botanists  call 
it  the  toothwort  (Deiitarla'),  also  pepper-root. 

From  what  fact  or  event  shall  one  really  date  the 
beginning  of  spring?  The  little  piping  frogs  usu- 
ally furnish  a  good  starting-point.  One  spring  I 
heard  the  first  note  on  the  Gth  of  April;  the  next 
on  the  27th  of  February;  but  in  reality  the  latter 
season  was  only  about  two  weeks  earlier  than  the 
former.  When  the  bees  carry  in  their  first  pollen, 
one  would  think  spring  had  come ;  yet  this  fact 
does  not  always  correspond  with  the  real  stage  of 
the  season.     Before  there  is  any  bloom  anywhere, 


166  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

bees  will  bring  pollen  to  the  hive.  Where  do  they 
get  it  1 

I  have  seen  them  gathering  it  on  the  fresh  saw- 
dust in  the  woodyard,  especially  on  that  of  hickory 
or  maple.  They  wallow  amid  the  dust,  working 
it  over  and  over,  and  searching  it  like  diamond- 
hunters,  and  after  a  time  their  baskets  are  filled 
with  the  precious  flour,  which  is  probably  only  a 
certain  part  of  the  wood,  doubtless  the  soft,  nutri- 
tious inner  bark. 

In  fact,  all  signs  and  phases  of  life  in  the  early 
season  are  very  capricious,  and  are  earlier  or  later 
just  as  some  local  or  exceptional  circumstance  favors 
or  hinders.  It  is  only  such  birds  as  arrive  after 
about  the  20th  of  April  that  are  at  all  "  punctual " 
according  to  the  almanac.  I  have  never  known  the 
arrival  of  the  barn  swallow  to  vary  much  from  that 
date  in  this  latitude,  no  matter  how  early  or  late 
the  season  might  be.  Another  punctual  bird  is  the 
yellow  red-poll  warbler,  the  first  of  his  class  that 
appears.  Year  after  year,  between  the  20th  and 
the  2oth,  I  am  sure  to  see  this  little  bird  about  my 
place  for  a  day  or  two  only,  now  on  the  ground, 
now  on  the  fences,  now  on  the  small  trees  and 
shrubs,  and  closely  examining  the  buds  or  just- 
opening  leaves  of  the  apple-trees.  He  is  a  small 
olive-colored  bird,  with  a  dark-red  or  maroon- col- 
ored patch  on  the  top  of  his  head.  His  ordinary 
note  is  a  smart  "chirp."  His  movements  are  very 
characteristic,  especially  that  vertical,  oscillating 
movement  of  the  hind  part  of  his  body,  like  that  of 


A  SPKING  RELISH  167 

the  wagtails.  There  are  many  birds  that  do  not 
come  here  till  May,  be  the  season  never  so  early. 
The  spring  of  1878  was  very  forward,  and  on  the 
27th  of  April  I  made  this  entry  in  my  note-book: 
"In  nature  it  is  the  middle  of  May,  and,  judging 
from  vegetation  alone,  one  would  expect  to  find 
many  of  the  later  birds,  as  the  oriole,  the  wood 
thrush,  the  kingbird,  the  catbird,  the  tanager,  the 
indigo-bird,  the  vireos,  and  many  of  the  warblers, 
but  they  have  not  arrived.  The  May  birds,  it 
seems,  will  not  come  in  April,  no  matter  how  the 
season  favors. " 

Some  birds  passing  north  in  the  spring  are  pro- 
vokingly  silent.  Every  April  I  see  the  hermit 
thrush  hopping  about  the  woods,  and  in  case  of  a 
sudden  snow-storm  seeking  shelter  about  the  out- 
buildings ;  but  I  never  hear  even  a  fragment  of  his 
wild,  silvery  strain.  The  white-crowned  sparrow 
also  passes  in  silence.  I  see  the  bird  for  a  few 
days  about  the  same  date  each  year,  but  he  will 
not  reveal  to  me  his  song.  On  the  other  hand, 
his  congener,  the  white-throated  sparrow,  is  decid- 
edly musical  in  passing,  both  spring  and  fall.  His 
sweet,  wavering  whistle  is  at  times  quite  as  full 
and  perfect  as  when  heard  in  June  or  July  in  the 
Canadian  woods.  The  latter  bird  is  much  more 
numerous  than  the  white- crowned,  and  its  stay 
with  us  more  protracted,  which  may  in  a  measure 
account  for  the  greater  frequency  of  its  song.  The 
fox  sparrow,  who  passes  earlier  (sometimes  in 
March),  is  also  chary  of  the  music  with  which  he 


168  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

is  SO  richly  endowed.  It  is  not  every  season  that 
I  hear  him,  though  my  ear  is  on  the  alert  for  his 
strong,  finely-modulated  whistle. 

Nearly  all  the  warblers  sing  in  passing.  I  hear 
them  in  the  orchards,  in  the  groves,  in  the  woods, 
as  they  pause  to  feed  in  their  northward  journey, 
their  brief,  lisping,  shuffling,  insect-like  notes  re- 
quiring to  be  searched  for  by  the  ear,  as  their  forms 
by  the  eye.  But  the  ear  is  not  tasked  to  identify 
the  songs  of  the  kinglets,  as  they  tarry  briefly  with 
us  in  spring.  In  fact,  there  is  generally  a  week 
in  April  or  early  May,  — 

"  On  such  a  time  as  goes  before  the  leaf, 
When  all  the  woods  stand  in  a  mist  of  green 
And  nothing  perfect," 

during  which  the  piping,  voluble,  rapid,  intricate, 
and  delicious  warble  of  the  ruby-crowned  kinglet  is 
the  most  noticeable  strain  to  be  heard,  especially 
among  the  evergreens. 

I  notice  that  during  the  mating  season  of  the 
birds  the  rivalries  and  jealousies  are  not  all  confined 
to  the  males.  Indeed,  the  most  spiteful  and  furious 
battles,  as  among  the  domestic  fowls,  are  frequently 
between  females.  I  have  seen  two  hen  robins 
scratch  and  pull  feathers  in  a  manner  that  contrasted 
strongly  with  the  courtly  and  dignified  sparring 
usual  between  the  males.  One  March  a  pair  of 
bluebirds  decided  to  set  up  housekeeping  in  the 
trunk  of  an  old  apple-tree  near  my  house.  Not 
long  after,  an  unwedded  female  appeared,  and  prob- 
ably tried  to  supplant  the  lawful  wife.      I  did  not 


A   SPRING   RELISH  169 

see  what  arts  she  used,  but  I  saw  her  "being  very 
roughly  handled  by  the  jealous  bride.  The  battle 
continued  nearly  all  day  about  the  orchard  and 
grounds,  and  was  a  battle  at  very  close  quarters. 
The  two  birds  would  clinch  in  the  air  or  on  a  tree, 
and  fall  to  the  ground  with  beaks  and  claws  locked. 
The  male  followed  them  about,  and  warbled  and 
called,  but  whether  deprecatingly  or  encouragingly, 
I  could  not  tell.  Occasionally,  he  would  take  a 
hand,  but  whether  to  separate  them  or  whether  to 
fan  the  flames,  that  I  could  not  tell.  So  far  as  I 
could  see,  he  was  highly  amused,  and  culpably  in- 
different to  the  issue  of  the  battle. 

The  English  spring  begins  much  earlier  than 
ours  in  New  England  and  New  York,  yet  an  excep- 
tionally early  April  with  us  must  be  nearly,  if  not 
quite,  abreast  with  April  as  it  usually  appears  in 
England.  The  black-thorn  sometimes  blooms  in 
Britain  in  February,  but  the  swallow  does  not 
appear  till  about  the  20th  of  April,  nor  the  anemone 
bloom  ordinarily  till  that  date.  The  •  nightingale 
comes  about  the  same  time,  and  the  cuckoo  follows 
close.  Our  cuckoo  does  not  come  till  near  June; 
but  the  water-thrush,  which  Audubon  thought 
nearly  equal  to  the  nightingale  as  a  songster  (though 
it  certainly  is  not),  I  have  known  to  come  by  the 
21st.  I  have  seen  the  sweet  English  violet,  escaped 
from  the  garden,  and  growing  wild  by  the  roadside, 
in  bloom  on  the  25th  of  March,  which  is  about  its 
date  of  flowering  at  home.  During  the  same  sea- 
son,  the  first  of  our  native  flowers  to  appear  was 


170  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

the  hepatica,  which  I  found  on  April  4.  The  arbu- 
tus and  the  dicentra  appeared  on  the  10th,  and 
the  coltsfoot  —  which,  however,  is   an   importation 

about  the  same  time.      The  bloodroot,  claytonia, 

saxifrage,  and  anemone  were  in  bloom  on  the  17th, 
and  I  found  the  first  blue  violet  and  the  great 
spurred  violet  on  the  19th  (saw  the  little  violet- 
colored  butterfly  dancing  about  the  woods  the  same 
day).  I  plucked  my  first  dandelion  on  a  meadow 
slope  on  the  23d,  and  in  the  woods,  protected  by  a 
high  ledge,  my  first  trillium.  During  the  month 
at  least  twenty  native  shrubs  and  wild  flowers 
bloomed  in  my  vicinity,  which  is  an  unusual  show- 
ing for  April. 

There  are  many  things  left  for  May,  but  nothing 
fairer,  if  as  fair,  as  the  first  flower,  the  hepatica. 
I  find  I  have  never  admired  this  little  firstling  half 
enough.  AMien  at  the  maturity  of  its  charms,  it 
is  certainly  the  gem  of  the  woods.  What  an  indi- 
viduality it  has!  No  two  clusters  alike;  all  shades 
and  sizes;  some  are  snow-white,  some  pale  pink, 
with  just  a  tinge  of  violet,  some  deep  purple,  others 
the  purest  blue,  others  blue  touched  with  lilac.  A 
solitary  blue-purple  one,  fully  expanded  and  rising 
over  the  brown  leaves  or  the  green  moss,  its  cluster 
of  minute  anthers  showing  like  a  group  of  pale  stars 
on  its  little  firmament,  is  enough  to  arrest  and  hold 
the  dullest  eye.  Then,  as  I  have  elsewhere  stated, 
there  are  individual  hepaticas,  or  individual  fami- 
lies among  them,  that  are  sweet-scented.  The  gift 
seems  as  capricious  as  the  gift  of  genius  in  families. 


A   SPRING   RELISH  171 

You  cannot  tell  which  the  fragrant  ones  are  till 
you  try  them.  Sometimes  it  is  the  large  white 
ones,  sometimes  the  large  purple  ones,  sometimes 
the  small  pink  ones.  The  odor  is  faint,  and  re- 
calls that  of  the  sweet  violets.  A  correspondent, 
who  seems  to  have  carefully  observed  these  fra- 
grant hepaticas,  writes  me  that  this  gift  of  odor  is 
constant  in  the  same  plant;  that  the  plant  which 
bears  sweet-scented  flowers  this  year  will  bear  them 
next. 

There  is  a  brief  period  in  our  spring  when  I  like 
more  than  at  any  other  time  to  drive  along  the 
country  roads,  or  even  to  be  shot  along  by  steam 
and  have  the  landscape  presented  to  me  like  a  map. 
It  is  at  that  period,  usually  late  in  April,  when 
we  behold  the  first  quickening  of  the  earth.  The 
waters  have  subsided,  the  roads  have  become  dry, 
the  sunshine  has  grown  strong  and  its  warmth  has 
penetrated  the  sod;  there  is  a  stir  of  preparation 
about  the  farm  and  all  through  the  country.  One 
does  not  care  to  see  things  very  closely ;  his  interest 
in  nature  is  not  special  but  general.  The  earth 
is  coming  to  life  again.  All  the  genial  and  more 
fertile  places  in  the  landscape  are  brought  out;  the 
earth  is  quickened  in  spots  and  streaks;  you  can  see 
at  a  glance  where  man  and  nature  have  dealt  the 
most  kindly  with  it.  The  warm,  moist  places,  the 
places  that  have  had  the  wash  of  some  building  or 
of  the  road,  or  have  been  subjected  to  some  special 
mellowing  influence,  how  quickly  the  turf  awakens 
there  and  shows  the  tender  green!      See  what  the 


172  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

landscape  would  be,  how  much  earlier  spring  would 
come  to  it,  if  every  square  yard  of  it  was  alike 
moist  and  fertile.  As  the  later  snows  lay  in  patches 
here  and  there,  so  now  the  earliest  verdure  is  irregu- 
larly spread  over  the  landscape,  and  is  especially 
marked  on  certain  slopes,  as  if  it  had  blown  over 
from  the  other  side  and  lodged  there. 

A  little  earlier  the  homesteads  looked  cold  and 
naked;  the  old  farmhouse  was  bleak  and  unattrac- 
tive; now  Nature  seems  especially  to  smile  upon 
it;  her  genial  influences  crowd  up  around  it;  the 
turf  awakens  all  about  as  if  in  the  spirit  of  friendli- 
ness. See  the  old  barn  on  the  meadow  slope;  the 
green  seems  to  have  oozed  out  from  it,  and  to  have 
flowed  slowly  down  the  hill;  at  a  little  distance  it 
is  lost  in  the  sere  stubble.  One  can  see  where 
every  spring  lies  buried  about  the  fields;  its  influ- 
ence is  felt  at  the  surface,  and  the  turf  is  early 
quickened  there.  Where  the  cattle  have  loved  to 
lie  and  ruminate  in  the  warm  summer  twilight, 
there  the  April  sunshine  loves  to  linger  too,  till  the 
sod  thrills  to  new  life. 

The  home,  the  domestic  feeling  in  nature,  is 
brought  out  and  enhanced  at  this  time;  what  man 
has  done  tells,  especially  what  he  has  done  well. 
Our  interest  centres  in  the  farmhouses,  and  in  the 
influence  that  seems  to  radiate  from  there.  The 
older  the  home,  the  more  genial  nature  looks  about 
it.  The  new  architectural  place  of  the  rich  citizen, 
with  the  barns  and  outbuildings  concealed  or  dis- 
guised as  much  as  possible,  —  spring  is  in  no  hurry 


A   SPRING   RELISH  173 

about  it;  the  sweat  of  long  years  of  honest  labor 
has  not  yet  fattened  the  soil  it  stands  upon. 

The  full  charm  of  this  April  landscape  is  not 
brought  out  till  the  afternoon.  It  seems  to  need 
the  slanting  rays  of  the  evening  sun  to  give  it  the 
right  mellowness  and  tenderness,  or  the  right  per- 
spective. It  is,  perhaps,  a  little  too  bald  in  the 
strong,  white  light  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  day ; 
but  when  the  faint,  four-o'clock  shadows  begin  to 
come  out,  and  we  look  through  the  green  vistas,  and 
along  the  farm  lanes  toward  the  west,  or  out  across 
long  stretches  of  fields  above  which  spring  seems 
fairly  hovering,  just  ready  to  alight,  and  note  the 
teams  slowly  plowing,  the  brightened  mould-board 
gleaming  in  the  sun  now  and  then,  —  it  is  at  such 
times  we  feel  its  fresh,  delicate  attraction  the  most. 
There  is  no  foliage  on  the  trees  yet;  only  here  and 
there  the  red  bloom  of  the  soft  maple,  illuminated 
by  the  declining  sun,  shows  vividly  against  the 
tender  green  of  a  slope  beyond,  or  a  willow,  like  a 
thin  veil,  stands  out  against  a  leafless  wood.  Here 
and  there  a  little  meadow  watercourse  is  golden 
with  marsh  marigolds,  or  some  fence  border,  or 
rocky  streak  of  neglected  pasture  land,  is  thickly 
starred  with  the  white  flowers  of  the  bloodroot. 
The  eye  can  devour  a  succession  of  landscapes  at 
such  a  time;  there  is  nothing  that  sates  or  entirely 
fills  it,  but  every  spring  token  stimulates  it  and 
makes  it  more  on  the  alert. 

April,  too,  is  the  time  to  go  budding.      A  swell- 
ing bud  is  food  for  the  fancy,  and  often  food  for 


174  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

the  eye.  Some  buds  begin  to  glow  as  they  begin 
to  swell.  The  bud  scales  change  color  and  become 
a  delicate  rose  pink.  I  note  this  especially  in  the 
European  maple.  The  bud  scales  flush  as  if  the 
effort  to  "  keep  in "  brought  the  blood  into  their 
faces.  The  scales  of  the  willow  do  not  flush,  but 
shine  like  ebony,  and  each  one  presses  like  a  hand 
upon  the  catkin  that  will  escape  from  beneath  it. 

When  spring  pushes  pretty  hard,  many  buds 
begin  to  sweat  as  well  as  to  glow;  they  exude  a 
brown,  fragrant,  gummy  substance  that  affords  the 
honey-bee  her  first  cement  and  hive  varnish.  The 
hickory,  the  horse-chestnut,  the  plane-tree,  the  pop- 
lars, are  all  coated  with  this  April  myrrh.  That 
of  certain  poplars,  like  the  Balm  of  Gilead,  is  the 
most  noticeable  and  fragrant.  No  spring  incense 
more  agreeable.  Its  perfume  is  often  upon  the 
April  breeze.  I  pick  up  the  bud  scales  of  the  pop- 
lars along  the  road,  long  brown  scales  like  the  beaks 
of  birds,  and  they  leave  a  rich  gummy  odor  in  my 
hand  that  lasts  for  hours,  I  frequently  detect  the 
same  odor  about  ray  hives  when  the  bees  are  mak- 
ing all  snug  against  the  rains,  or  against  the  millers. 
AVhen  used  by  the  bees,  we  call  it  propolis.  Virgil 
refers  to  it  as  a  "glue  more  adhesive  than  bird-lime 
and  the  pitch  of  Phrygian  Ida. "  Pliny  says  it  is 
extracted  from  the  tears  of  the  elm,  the  willow, 
and  the  reed.  The  bees  often  have  serious  work  to 
detach  it  from  their  leg-baskets,  and  make  it  stick 
only  where  they  want  it  to. 

The  bud  scales  begin  to  drop  in  April,  and  by 


A   SPRING  RELISH  175 

May  Day  the  scales  have  fallen  from  the  eyes  of 
every  branch  in  the  forest.  In  most  cases  the  bud 
has  an  inner  wrapping  that  does  not  fall  so  soon. 
In  the  hickory  this  inner  wrapping  is  like  a  great 
livid  membrane,  an  inch  or  more  in  length,  thick, 
fleshy,  and  shining.  It  clasps  the  tender  leaves 
about  as  if  both  protecting  and  nursing  them.  As 
the  leaves  develop,  these  membranous  wrappings 
curl  back,  and  finally  wither  and  fall.  In  the  plane- 
tree,  or  sycamore,  this  inner  wrapping  of  the  bud 
is  a  little  pelisse  of  soft  yellow  or  tawny  fur. 
When  it  is  cast  off,  it  is  the  size  of  one's  thumb 
nail,  and  suggests  the  delicate  skin  of  some  golden- 
haired  mole.  The  young  sycamore  balls  lay  aside 
their  fur  wrappings  early  in  May.  The  flower  tas- 
sels of  the  European  maple,  too,  come  packed  in 
a  slightly  furry  covering.  The  long  and  fleshy 
inner  scales  that  enfold  the  flowers  and  leaves  are 
of  a  clear  olive  green,  thinly  covered  with  silken 
hairs  like  the  young  of  some  animals.  Our  sugar 
maple  is  less  striking  and  beautiful  in  the  bud,  but 
the  flowers  are  more  graceful  and  fringe-like. 

Some  trees  have  no  bud  scales.  The  sumac 
presents  in  early  spring  a  mere  fuzzy  knot,  from 
which,  by  and  by,  there  emerges  a  soft,  furry, 
tawny-colored  kitten's  paw.  I  know  of  nothing  in 
vegetable  nature  that  seems  so  really  to  be  born  as 
the  ferns.  They  emerge  from  the  ground  rolled 
up,  with  a  rudimentary  and  "  touch-me-not "  look, 
and  appear  to  need  a  maternal  tongue  to  lick  them 
into  shape.      The  sun  plays  the  wet-nurse  to  them, 


176  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

and  very  soon  they  are  out  of  that  uncanny  cover- 
ing in  which  they  come  swathed,  and  take  their 
places  with  other  green  things. 

The  bud  scales  strew  the  ground  in  spring  as  the 
leaves  do  in  the  fall,  though  they  are  so  small  that 
we  hardly  notice  them.      All  growth,  all  develop- 
ment, is  a  casting  off,  a  leaving  of  something  behind. 
First  the  bud  scales  drop,   then  the  flower  drops, 
then    the  fruit  drops,    then  the    leaf    drops.      The 
first  two  are  preparatory  and  stand  for  spring ;  the 
last    two    are    the    crown    and    stand    for   autumn. 
Nearly  the  same  thing  happens  with  the  seed  in  the 
ground.      First  the  shell,  or  outer  husk,  is  dropped 
or  cast  ofif ;  then  the  cotyledons,  those  nurse  leaves 
of  the  young  plant;  then  the  fruit  falls,  and  at  last 
the  stalk  and  leaf.     A  bud  is  a  kind  of  seed  planted 
in  the  branch  instead  of  in  the  soil.      It  bursts  and 
grows  like  a  germ.      In  the  absence  of  seeds  and 
fruit,    many   birds    and    animals    feed    upon    buds. 
The   pine   grosbeaks  from  the  north  are  the  most 
destructive  budders  that  come  among  us.     The  snow 
beneath  the  maples  they  frequent  is  often  covered 
with  bud  scales.      The  ruffed  grouse  sometimes  buds 
in  an  orchard  near  the  woods,  and  thus  takes  the 
farmer's  apple  crop  a  year  in  advance.      Grafting 
is   but   a   planting  of  buds.      The   seed   is   a  com- 
plete, independent  bud ;  it  has  the  nutriment  of  the 
young  plant  within  itself,  as  the  egg  holds  several 
good    lunches    for    the    young    chick.      When    the 
spider,   or  the  wasp,    or  the  carpenter  bee,   or  the 
sand  hornet  lays  an  egg  in  a  cell,  and  deposits  food 


A   SPRING  RELISH  177 

near  it  for  the  young  when  hatched,  it  does  just 
what  nature  does  in  every  kernel  of  corn  or  wheat, 
or  bean,  or  nut.  Around  or  within  the  chit  or  germ, 
she  stores  food  for  the  young  plant.  Upon  this  it 
feeds  till  the  root  takes  hold  of  the  soil  and  draws 
sustenance  from  thence.  The  bud  is  rooted  in  the 
branch,  and  draws  its  sustenance  from  the  milk  of 
the  pulpy  cambium  layer  beneath  the  bark. 

Another  pleasant  feature  of  spring,  which  I  have 
not  mentioned,  is  the  full  streams.  Riding  across 
the  country  one  bright  day  in  March,  I  saw  and 
felt,  as  if  for  the  first  time,  what  an  addition  to  the 
satisfaction  one  has  in  the  open  air  at  this  season  are 
the  clear,  full  watercourses.  They  come  to  the 
front,  as  it  were,  and  lure  and  hold  the  eye.  There 
are  no  weeds,  or  grasses,  or  foliage  to  hide  them; 
they  are  full  to  the  brim,  and  fuller;  they  catch 
and  reflect  the  -sunbeams,  and  are  about  the  only 
objects  of  life  and  motion  in  nature.  The  trees 
stand  so  still,  the  fields  are  so  hushed  and  naked, 
the  mountains  so  exposed  and  rigid,  that  the  eye 
falls  upon  the  blue,  sparkling,  undulating  water- 
courses with  a  peculiar  satisfaction.  By  and  by 
the  grass  and  trees  will  be  waving,  and  the  streams 
will  be  shrunken  and  hidden,  and  our  delight  will 
not  be  in  them.  The  still  ponds  and  lakelets  will 
then  please  us  more. 

The  little  brown  brooks,  —  how  swift  and  full 
they  ran!  One  fancied  something  gleeful  and  hila- 
rious in  them.  And  the  large  creeks,  —  how  stead- 
ily they  rolled  on,  trailing  their  ample  skirts  along 


178  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

the  edges  of  the  fields  and  marshes,  and  leaving 
ragged  patches  of  water  here  and  there!  Many  a 
gentle  slope  spread,  as  it  were,  a  turfy  apron  in 
which  reposed  a  little  pool  or  lakelet.  Many  a 
stream  sent  little  detachments  across  lots,  the  spark- 
ling water  seeming  to  trip  lightly  over  the  unbroken 
turf.  Here  and  there  an  oak  or  an  elm  stood 
knee-deep  in  a  clear  pool,  as  if  rising  from  its  bath. 
It  gives  one  a  fresh,  genial  feeling  to  see  such  a 
bountiful  supply  of  pure,  running  water.  One's 
desires  and  affinities  go  out  toward  the  full  streams. 
How  many  a  parched  place  they  reach  and  lap  in 
one's  memory !  How  many  a  vision  of  naked  peb- 
bles and  sun-baked  banks  they  cover  and  blot  out! 
They  give  eyes  to  the  fields;  they  give  dimples  and 
laughter;  they  give  light  and  motion.  Running 
water!  What  a  delightful  suggestion  the  words 
always  convey!  One's  thoughts  and  sympathies 
are  set  flowing  by  them;  they  unlock  a  fountain  of 
pleasant  fancies  and  associations  in  one's  memory; 
the  imagination  is  touched  and  refreshed. 

March  water  is  usually  clean,  sweet  water;  every 
brook  is  a  trout-brook,  a  mountain  brook;  the  cold 
and  the  snow  have  supplied  the  condition  of  a  high 
latitude;  no  stagnation,  no  corruption,  comes  down- 
stream now  as  on  a  summer  freshet.  Winter  comes 
down,  liquid  and  repentant.  Indeed,  it  is  more 
than  water  that  runs  then:  it  is  frost  subdued;  it 
is  spring  triumphant.  No  obsolete  watercourses 
now.  The  larger  creeks  seek  out  their  abandoned 
beds,  return  to  the  haunts  of  their  youth,  and  lin- 


A   SPRING  RELISH  179 

ger  fondly  there.  The  muskrat  is  adrift,  but  not 
homeless;  his  range  is  vastly  extended,  and  he  evi- 
dently rejoices  in  full  streams.  Through  the  tun- 
nel of  the  meadow  -  mouse  the  water  rushes  as 
through  a  pipe;  and  that  nest  of  his,  that  was  so 
warm  and  cozy  beneath  the  snowbank  in  the  meadow- 
bottom,  is  sodden  or  afloat.  But  meadow-mice  are 
not  afraid  of  water.  On  various  occasions  I  have 
seen  them  swimming  about  the  spring  pools  like 
muskrats,  and,  when  alarmed,  diving  beneath  the 
water.  Add  the  golden  willows  to  the  full  streams, 
with  the  red-shouldered  starlings  perched  amid 
their  branches,  sending  forth  their  strong,  liquid, 
gurgling  notes,  and  the  picture  is  complete.  The 
willow  branches  appear  to  have  taken  on  a  deeper 
yellow  in  spring;  perhaps  it  is  the  efi'ect  of  the 
stronger  sunshine,  perhaps  it  is  the  effect  of  the 
swift  vital  water  laving  their  roots.  The  epaulettes 
of  the  starlings,  too,  are  brighter  than  when  they 
left  us  in  the  fall,  and  they  appear  to  get  brighter 
daily  until  the  nesting  begins.  The  males  arrive 
many  days  before  the  females,  and,  perched  along 
the  marshes  and  watercourses,  send  forth  their 
liquid,  musical  notes,  passing  the  call  from  one  to 
the  other,  as  if  to  guide  and  hurry  their  mates  for- 
ward. 

The  noise  of  a  brook,  you  may  observe,  is  by  no 
means  in  proportion  to  its  volume.  The  full  March 
streams  make  far  less  noise  relatively  to  their  size 
than  the  shallower  streams  of  summer,  because  the 
rocks  and  pebbles  that  cause  the  sound  in  summer 
are    deeply    buried    beneath     the     current.      "Still 


180  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

waters  run  deep"  is  not  so  true  as  "deep  waters 
run  still."  I  rode  for  half  a  day  along  the  upper 
Delaware,  and  my  thoughts  almost  unconsciously 
faced  toward  the  full,  clear  river.  Both  the  Dela- 
ware and  the  Susquehanna  have  a  starved,  impov- 
erished look  in  summer,  —  unsightly  stretches  of 
naked  drift  and  bare,  bleaching  rocks.  But  behold 
them  in  March,  after  the  frost  has  turned  over  to 
them  the  moisture  it  has  held  back  and  stored  up 
as  the  primitive  forests  used  to  hold  the  summer 
rains.  Then  they  have  an  easy,  ample,  triumphant 
look,  that  is  a  feast  to  the  eye.  A  plump,  well-fed 
stream  is  as  satisfying  to  behold  as  a  well-fed  ani- 
mal or  a  thrifty  tree.  One  source  of  charm  in  the 
English  landscape  is  the  full,  placid  stream  the  sea- 
son through;  no  desiccated  watercourses  will  you 
see  there,  nor  any  feeble,  decrepit  brooks,  hardly 
able  to  get  over  the  ground. 

This  condition  of  our  streams  and  rivers  in 
spring  is  evidently  but  a  faint  reminiscence  of  their 
condition  during  what  we  may  call  the  geological 
springtime,  the  March  or  April  of  the  earth's  his- 
tory, when  the  annual  rainfall  appears  to  have 
been  vastly  greater  than  at  present,  and  when  the 
watercourses  were  consequently  vastly  larger  and 
fuller.  In  pleistocene  days  the  earth's  climate  was 
evidently  much  damper  than  at  present.  It  was 
the  rainiest  of  March  weather.  On  no  other  theory 
can  we  account  for  the  enormous  erosion  of  the 
earth's  surface,  and  the  plowing  of  the  great  val- 
leys. Professor  Newberry  finds  abundant  evidence 
that   the   Hudson   was,    in    former   times,    a   much 


A   SPRING  RELISH  181 

larger  river  than  now.  Professor  Zittel  reaches  tlie 
same  conclusion  concerning  the  Nile,  and  Humboldt 
was  impressed  with  the  same  fact  while  examining 
the  Orinoco  and  the  tributaries  of  the  Amazon.  All 
these  rivers  appear  to  be  but  mere  fractions  of  their 
former  selves.  The  same  is  true  of  all  the  great 
lakes.  If  not  Noah's  flood,  then  evidently  some 
other  very  wet  spell,  of  which  this  is  a  tradition, 
lies  far  behind  us.  Something  like  the  drought  of 
summer  is  beginning  upon  the  earth;  the  great 
floods  have  dried  up;  the  rivers  are  slowly  shrink- 
ing; the  water  is  penetrating  farther  and  farther 
into  the  cooling  crust  of  the  earth;  and  what  was 
ample  to  drench  and  cover  its  surface,  even  to  make 
a  Noah's  flood,  will  be  but  a  drop  in  the  bucket  to 
the  vast  interior  of  the  cooled  sphere. 


A  RIVER  VIEW 

A  SMALL  river  or  stream  flowing  by  one's  door 
-^-^  has  many  attractions  over  a  large  body  of 
water  like  the  Hudson.  One  can  make  a  compan- 
ion of  it;  he  can  walk  with  it  and  sit  with  it,  or 
lounge  on  its  banks,  and  feel  that  it  is  all  his  own. 
It  becomes  something  private  and  special  to  him. 
You  cannot  have  the  same  kind  of  attachment  and 
sympathy  with  a  great  river;  it  does  not  flow 
through  your  aff'ections  like  a  lesser  stream.  The 
Hudson  is  a  long  arm  of  the  sea,  and  it  has  some- 
thing of  the  sea's  austerity  and  grandeur.  I  think 
one  might  spend  a  lifetime  upon  its  banks  with- 
out feeling  any  sense  of  ownership  in  it,  or  becoming 
at  all  intimate  with  it:  it  keeps  one  at  arm's  length. 
It  is  a  great  highway  of  travel  and  of  commerce; 
ships  from  all  parts  of  our  seaboard  plow  its  waters. 
But  there  is  one  thing  a  large  river  does  for 
one  that  is  beyond  the  scope  of  the  companionable 
streams,  —  it  idealizes  the  landscape,  it  multiplies 
and  heightens  the  beauty  of  the  day  and  of  the  sea- 
son. A  fair  day  it  makes  more  fair,  and  a  wild 
and  tempestuous  day  it  makes  more  wild  and  tem- 
pestuous.     It  takes  on  so  quickly  and  completely 


184  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

the  mood  and  temper  of  the  sky  above.  The  storm 
is  mirrored  in  it,  and  the  wind  chafes  it  into  foam. 
The  face  of  winter  it  makes  doubly  rigid  and  corpse- 
like. How  stark  and  still  and  white  it  lies  there! 
But  of  a  bright  day  in  spring,  what  life  and  light 
possess  it!  How  it  enhances  or  emphasizes  the 
beauty  of  those  calm,  motionless  days  of  summer 
or  fall,  —  the  broad,  glassy  surface  perfectly  dupli- 
cating the  opposite  shore,  sometimes  so  smooth  that 
the  finer  floating  matter  here  and  there  looks  like 
dust  upon  a  mirror;  the  becalmed  sails  standing 
this  way  and  that,  drifting  with  the  tide.  Indeed, 
nothing  points  a  calm  day  like  a  great  motionless 
sail;  it  is  such  a  conspicuous  bid  for  the  breeze 
which  comes  not. 

I  have  observed  that  when  the  river  is  roily,  the 
fact  is  not  noticeable  on  a  calm  day ;  a  glassy  sur- 
face is  a  kind  of  mask.  But  when  the  breeze  comes 
and  agitates  it  a  little,  its  real  color  comes  out. 

"Immortal  water,"  says  Thoreau,  "alive  to  the 
superficies."  How  sensitive  and  tremulous  and 
palpitating  this  great  river  is!  It  is  only  in  cer- 
tain lights,  on  certain  days,  that  we  can  see  how  it 
quivers  and  throbs.  Sometimes  you  can  see  the 
subtle  tremor  or  impulse  that  travels  in  advance  of 
the  coming  steamer  and  prophesies  of  its  coming. 
Sometimes  the  coming  of  the  flood-tide  is  heralded 
in  the  same  way.  Always,  when  the  surface  is 
calm  enough  and  the  light  is  favorable,  the  river 
seems  shot  through  and  through  with  tremblings 
and  premonitions. 


A   RIVER   VIEW  185 

The  river  never  seems  so  much  a  thing  of  life 
as  in  the  spring  when  it  first  slips  off  its  icy  fet- 
ters. The  dead  comes  to  life  before  one's  very  eyes. 
The  rigid,  pallid  river  is  resurrected  in  a  twinkling. 
You  look  out  of  your  window  one  moment,  and 
there  is  that  great,  white,  motionless  expanse;  you 
look  again,  and  there  in  its  place  is  the  tender, 
dimpling,  sparkling  water.  But  if  your  eyes  are 
sharp,  you  may  have  noticed  the  signs  all  the  fore- 
noon; the  time  was  ripe,  the  river  stirred  a  little  in 
its  icy  shroud,  put  forth  a  little  streak  or  filament 
of  blue  water  near  shore,  made  breathing-holes. 
Then,  after  a  while,  the  ice  was  rent  in  places,  and 
the  edges  crushed  together  or  shoved  one  slightly 
upon  the  other;  there  was  apparently  something 
growing  more  and  more  alive  and  restless  under- 
neath. Then  suddenly  the  whole  mass  of  the  ice 
from  shore  to  shore  begins  to  move  downstream,  — 
very  gently,  almost  imperceptibly  at  first,  then  with 
a  steady,  deliberate  pace  that  soon  lays  bare  a  large 
expanse  of  bright,  dancing  water.  The  island  above 
keeps  back  the  northern  ice,  and  the  ebb  tide  makes 
a  clean  sweep  from  that  point  south  for  a  few 
miles,  until  the  return  of  the  flood,  when  the  ice 
comes  back. 

After  the  ice  is  once  in  motion,  a  few  hours  suf- 
fice to  break  it  up  pretty  thoroughly.  Then  what 
a  wild,  chaotic  scene  the  river  presents:  in  one  part 
of  the  day  the  great  masses  hurrying  downstream, 
crowding  and  jostling  each  other,  and  struggling  for 
the   right  of   way;    in  the   other,    all   running  up- 


186  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

stream  again,  as  if  sure  of  escape  in  that  direction. 
Thus  they  race  up  and  down,  the  sport  of  the  ebb 
and  flow;  but  the  ebb  wins  each  time  by  some  dis- 
tance. Large  fields  from  above,  where  the  men 
were  at  work  but  a  day  or  two  since,  come  down; 
there  is  their  pond  yet  clearly  defined  and  full  of 
marked  ice ;  yonder  is  a  section  of  their  canal 
partly  filled  with  the  square  blocks  on  their  way 
to  the  elevators;  a  piece  of  a  race-course,  or  a  part 
of  a  road  where  teams  crossed,  comes  drifting  by. 
The  people  up  above  have  written  their  winter 
pleasure  and  occupations  upon  this  page,  and  we 
read  the  signs  as  the  tide  bears  it  slowly  past. 
Some  calm,  bright  days  the  scattered  and  dimin- 
ished masses  glide  by  like  white  clouds  across  an 
April  sky. 

At  other  times,  when  the  water  is  black  and  still, 
the  river  looks  like  a  strip  of  the  firmament  at 
night,  dotted  with  stars  and  moons  in  the  shape  of 
little  and  big  fragments  of  ice.  One  day,  I  remem- 
ber, there  came  gliding  into  my  vision  a  great  irreg- 
ular hemisphere  of  ice,  that  vividly  suggested  the 
half  moon  under  the  telescope;  its  white  uneven 
surface,  pitted  and  cracked,  the  jagged  inner  line, 
the  outward  curve,  but  little  broken,  and  the  blue- 
black  surface  upon  which  it  lay,  all  recalled  the 
scenery  of  the  midnight  skies.  It  is  only  in  excep- 
tionally calm  weather  that  the  ice  collects  in  these 
vast  masses,  leaving  broad  expanses  of  water  per- 
fectly clear.  Sometimes,  during  such  weather,  it 
drifts  by  in  forms  that  suggest  the  great  continents, 


A   RIVER   VIEW  187 

as  they  appear  upon  the  map,  surrounded  by  the 
oceans,  all  their  capes  and  penuisulas,  and  isth- 
muses and  gulfs,  and  inland  lakes  and  seas,  vividly 
reproduced. 

If  the  opening  of  the  river  is  gentle,  the  closing 
of  it  is  sometimes  attended  by  scenes  exactly  the 
reverse. 

A  cold  wave  one  December  was  accompanied  by 
a  violent  wind,  which  blew  for  two  days  and  two 
nights.  The  ice  formed  rapidly  in  the  river,  but 
the  wind  and  waves  kept  it  from  uniting  and  mass- 
ing. On  the  second  day  the  scene  was  indescrib- 
ably wild  and  forbidding;  the  frost  and  fury  of 
December  were  never  more  vividly  pictured:  vast 
crumpled,  spumy  ice-fields  interspersed  with  stretches 
of  wildly  agitated  water,  the  heaving  waves  thick 
with  forming  crystals,  the  shores  piled  with  frozen 
foam  and  pulverized  floes.  After  the  cold  wave 
had  spent  itself  and  the  masses  had  become  united 
and  stationary,  the  scene  was  scarcely  less  wild.  I 
fancied  the  plain  looked  more  like  a  field  of  lava 
and  scoria  than  like  a  field  of  ice,  an  eruption  from 
some  huge  frost  volcano  of  the  north.  Or  did  it 
suggest  that  a  battle  had  been  fought  there,  and 
that  this  wild  confusion  was  the  ruin  wrought  by 
the  contending  forces? 

No  sooner  has  the  river  pulled  his  icy  coverlid 
over  him  than  he  begins  to  snore  in  his  winter 
sleep.  It  is  a  singular  sound.  Thoreau  calls  it  a 
"whoop,"  Emerson  a  "cannonade,"  and  in  "Mer- 
lin "  speaks  of 


188  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

"  the  gasp  and  moan 
Of  the  ice-imprisoned  flood." 

Sometimes  it  is  a  well-defined  grunt,  —  e-h-h,  e-h-hj 
as  if  some  ice-god  turned  uneasily  in  his  bed. 

One  fancies  the  sound  is  like  this,  when  he  hears 
it  in  the  still  winter  nights  seated  by  his  fireside,  or 
else  when  snugly  wrapped  in  his  own  bed. 

One  winter  the  river  shut  up  in  a  single  night, 
beneath  a  cold  wave  of  great  severity  and  extent. 
Zero  weather  continued  nearly  a  week,  with  a  clear 
sky  and  calm,  motionless  air ;  and  the  effect  of  the 
brilliant  sun  by  day  and  of  the  naked  skies  by 
night  upon  this  vast  area  of  new  black  ice,  one  ex- 
panding it,  the  other  contracting,  was  very  marked. 

A  cannonade  indeed !  As  the  morning  advanced, 
out  of  the  sunshine  came  peal  upon  peal  of  soft 
mimic  thunder;  occasionally  becoming  a  regular 
crash,  as  if  all  the  ice  batteries  were  discharged  at 
once.  As  noon  approached,  the  sound  grew  to  one 
continuous  mellow  roar,  which  lessened  and  became 
more  intermittent  as  the  day  waned,  until  about 
sundown  it  was  nearly  hushed.  Then,  as  the  chill 
of  night  came  on,  the  conditions  were  reversed,  and 
the  ice  began  to  thunder  under  the  effects  of  con- 
traction; cracks  opened  from  shore  to  shore,  and 
grew  to  be  two  or  three  inches  broad  under  the 
shrinkage  of  the  ice.  On  the  morrow  the  expansion 
of  the  ice  often  found  vent  in  one  of  these  cracks ; 
the  two  edges  would  first  crush  together,  and  then 
gradually  overlap  each  other  for  two  feet  or  more. 
This  expansive  force  of  the  sun  upon  the  ice  is 


A   EIVEK    VIEW  189 

sometimes  enormous.  I  have  seen  the  ice  explode 
with  a  loud  noise  and  a  great  commotion  in  the 
water,  and  a  huge  crack  shoot  like  a  thunderbolt 
from  shore  to  shore,  with  its  edges  overlapping  and 
shivered  into  fragments. 

When  unprotected  by  a  covering  of  snow,  the 
ice,  under  the  expansive  force  of  the  sun,  breaks 
regularly,  every  two  or  three  miles,  from  shore  to 
shore.  The  break  appears  as  a  slight  ridge,  formed 
by  the  edges  of  the  overlapping  ice. 

This  icy  uproar  is  like  thunder,  because  it  seems 
to  proceed  from  something  in  swift  motion;  you 
cannot  locate  it ;  it  is  everywhere  and  yet  nowhere. 
There  is  something  strange  and  phantom-like  about 
it.  To  the  eye  all  is  still  and  rigid,  but  to  the  ear 
all  is  in  swift  motion. 

This  crystal  cloud  does  not  open  and  let  the  bolt 
leap  forth,  but  walk  upon  it  and  you  see  the  ice 
shot  through  and  through  in  every  direction  with 
shining,  iridescent  lines  where  the  force  passed. 
These  lines  are  not  cracks  which  come  to  the  sur- 
face, but  spiral  paths  through  the  ice,  as  if  the 
force  that  made  them  went  with  a  twist  like  a  rifle 
bullet.  In  places  several  of  them  run  together, 
when  they  make  a  track  as  broad  as  one's  hand. 

Sometimes,  when  I  am  walking  upon  the  ice  and 
this  sound  flashes  by  me,  I  fancy  it  is  like  the 
stroke  of  a  gigantic  skater,  one  who  covers  a  mile 
at  a  stride  and  makes  the  crystal  floor  ring  beneath 
him.  I  hear  his  long  tapering  stroke  ring  out  just 
beside  me,  and  then  in  a  twinkling  it  is  half  a  mile 
away. 


190  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

A  fall  of  snow,  and  this  icy  uproar  is  instantly 
hushed,  the  river  sleeps  in  peace.  The  snow  is 
like  a  coverlid,  which  protects  the  ice  from  the 
changes  of  temperature  of  the  air,  and  brings  repose 
to  its  uneasy  spirit. 

A  dweller  upon  its  banks,  I  am  an  interested 
spectator  of  the  spring  and  winter  harvests  which 
its  waters  yield.  In  the  stern  winter  nights,  it  is 
a  pleasant  thought  that  a  harvest  is  growing  down 
there  on  those  desolate  plains  which  will  bring  work 
to  many  needy  hands  by  and  by,  and  health  and 
comfort  to  the  great  cities  some  months  later. 
When  the  nights  are  coldest,  the  ice  grows  as  fast 
as  corn  in  July.  It  is  a  crop  that  usually  takes 
two  or  three  weeks  to  grow,  and,  if  the  water  is  very 
roily  or  brackish,  even  longer.  Men  go  out  from 
time  to  time  and  examine  it,  as  the  farmer  goes  out 
and  examines  his  grain  or  grass,  to  see  when  it  will 
do  to  cut.  If  there  comes  a  deep  fall  of  snow 
before  the  ice  has  attained  much  thickness,  it  is 
"pricked,"  so  as  to  let  the  water  up  through  and 
form  snow-ice.  A  band  of  fifteen  or  twenty  men, 
about  a  yard  ajDart,  each  armed  with  a  chisel-bar 
and  marching  in  line,  puncture  the  ice  at  each  step 
with  a  single  sharp  thrust.  To  and  fro  they  go, 
leaving  a  belt  behind  them  that  presently  becomes 
saturated  with  water.  But  ice,  to  be  first  quality, 
must  grow  from  beneath,  not  from  above.  It  is  a 
crop  quite  as  uncertain  as  any  other.  A  good  yield 
every  two  or  three  years,  as  they  say  of  wheat  out 
West,  is  about  all  that  can  be  counted  upon.    When 


A    RIVER   VIEW  191 

there  is  an  abundant  harvest,  after  the  ice-houses 
are  filled,  they  stack  great  quantities  of  it,  as  the 
farmer  stacks  his  surplus  hay. 

The  cutting  and  gathering  of  the  ice  enlivens 
these  broad,  white,  desolate  fields  amazingly.  One 
looks  down  upon  the  busy  scene  as  from  a  hill- 
top upon  a  river  meadow  in  haying  time,  only  here 
the  figures  stand  out  much  more  sharply  than  they 
do  from  a  summer  meadow.  There  is  the  broad, 
straight,  blue-black  canal  emerging  into  view,  and 
running  nearly  across  the  river;  this  is  the  highway 
that  lays  open  the  farm.  On  either  side  lie  the 
fields  or  ice -meadows,  each  marked  out  by  cedar  or 
hemlock  boughs.  The  farther  one  is  cut  first,  and, 
when  cleared,  shows  a  large,  long,  black  parallelo- 
gram in  the  midst  of  the  plain  of  snow.  Then  the 
next  one  is  cut,  leaving  a  strip  or  tongue  of  ice 
between  the  two  for  the  horses  to  move  and  turn 
upon.  Sometimes  nearly  two  hundred  men  and 
boys,  with  numerous  horses,  are  at  work  at  once, 
marking,  plowing,  planing,  scraping,  sawing,  haul- 
ing, chiseling;  some  floating  down  the  pond  on 
great  square  islands  towed  by  a  horse,  or  their  fel- 
low-workmen; others  distributed  along  the  canal, 
bending  to  their  ice-hooks ;  others  upon  the  bridges, 
separating  the  blocks  with  their  chisel-bars;  others 
feeding  the  elevators;  while  knots  and  straggling 
lines  of  idlers  here  and  there  look  on  in  cold  discon- 
tent, unable  to  get  a  job. 

The  best  crop  of  ice  is  an  early  crop.  Late  in 
the  season,  or  after  January,  the  ice  is  apt  to  get 


192  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

" siinstriick, "  when  it  becomes  "shaky,"  like  a  piece 
of  poor  timber.  The  sun,  when  he  sets  about 
destroying  the  ice,  does  not  simply  melt  it  from  the 
surface,  —  that  were  a  slow  process ;  but  he  sends 
his  shafts  into  it  and  separates  it  into  spikes  and 
needles,  —  in  short,  makes  kindling-wood  of  it,  so 
as  to  consume  it  the  quicker. 

One  of  the  prettiest  sights  about  the  ice-harvest- 
ing is  the  elevator  in  operation.  When  all  works 
well,  there  is  an  unbroken  procession  of  the  great 
crystal  blocks  slowly  ascending  this  incline.  They 
go  up  in  couples,  arm  in  arm,  as  it  were,  like 
friends  up  a  stairway,  glowing  and  changing  in  the 
sun,  and  recalling  the  precious  stones  that  adorned 
the  walls  of  the  celestial  city.  When  they  reach 
the  platform  where  they  leave  the  elevator,  they 
seem  to  step  off  like  things  of  life  and  volition; 
they  are  still  in  pairs,  and  separate  only  as  they 
enter  upon  the  "runs."  But  here  they  have  an 
ordeal  to  pass  through,  for  they  are  subjected  to 
a  rapid  inspection  by  a  man  with  a  sharp  eye  in  his 
head  and  a  sharp  ice-hook  in  his  hand,  and  the 
black  sheep  are  separated  from  the  flock;  every 
square  with  a  trace  of  sediment  or  earth-stain  in  it, 
whose  texture  is  not  the  perfect  and  unclouded  crys- 
tal, is  rejected,  and  sent  hurling  down  into  the 
abyss.  Those  that  pass  the  examination  glide  into 
the  building  along  the  gentle  incline,  and  are 
switched  off  here  and  there  upon  branch  runs,  and 
distributed  to  all  parts  of  the  immense  interior. 
When  the  momentum  becomes  too  great,  the  blocks 


A    RIVER   VIEW  193 

run  over  a  board  full  of  nails  or  spikes,  that  scratch 
their  bottoms  and  retard  their  progress,  giving  the 
looker-on  an  uncomfortable  feeling. 
■  A  beautiful  phenomenon  may  at  times  be  wit- 
nessed on  the  river  in  the  morning  after  a  night  of 
extreme  cold.  The  new  black  ice  is  found  to  be 
covered  with  a  sudden  growth  of  frost  ferns,  —  ex- 
quisite fern-like  formations  from  a  half  inch  to  an 
inch  in  length,  standing  singly  and  in  clusters,  and 
under  the  morning  sun  presenting  a  most  novel 
appearance.  They  impede  the  skate,  and  are  pres- 
ently broken  down  and  blown  about  by  the  wind. 

The  scenes  and  doings  of  summer  are  counter- 
feited in  other  particulars  upon  these  crystal  plains. 
Some  bright,  breezy  day  you  casually  glance  down 
the  river  and  behold  a  sail,  —  a  sail  like  that  of  a 
pleasure  yacht  of  summer.  Is  the  river  open  again 
below  there  ?  is  your  first  half-defined  inquiry.  But 
with  what  unwonted  speed  the  sail  is  moving  across 
the  view!  Before  you  have  fairly  drawn  another 
breath  it  has  turned,  unperceived,  and  is  shoot- 
ing with  equal  swiftness  in  the  opposite  direction. 
Who  ever  saw  such  a  lively  sail!  It  does  not  bend 
before  the  breeze,  but  darts  to  and  fro  as  if  it 
moved  in  a  vacuum,  or  like  a  shadow  over  a  screen. 
Then  you  remember  the  ice-boats,  and  you  open 
your  eyes  to  the  fact.  Another  and  another  come 
into  view  around  the  elbow,  turning  and  flashing 
in  the  sun,  and  hurtling  across  each  other's  path 
like  white-winged  gulls.  They  turn  so  quickly,  and 
dash  off  again  at  such  speed,  that   they  produce  the 


194  SIGNS    AND    SEASONS 

illusion  of  something  singularly  light  and  intan- 
gible. In  fact,  an  ice-boat  is  a  sort  of  disembodied 
yacht;  it  is  a  sail  on  skates.  The  only  semblance 
to  a  boat  is  the  sail  and  the  rudder.  The  platform 
under  which  the  skates  or  runners  —  three  in  num- 
ber—  are  rigged  is  broad  and  low;  upon  this  the 
pleasure- seekers,  wrapped  in  their  furs  or  blankets, 
lie  at  full  length,  and,  looking  under  the  sail,  skim 
the  frozen  surface  with  their  eyes.  The  speed 
attained  is  sometimes  very  great,  —  more  than  a 
mile  per  minute,  and  sufficient  to  carry  them  ahead 
of  the  fastest  express  train.  When  going  at  this 
rate  the  boat  will  leap  like  a  greyhound,  and  thrill- 
ing stories  are  told  of  the  fearful  crevasses,  or  open 
places  in  the  ice,  that  are  cleared  at  a  bound.  And 
yet  withal  she  can  be  brought  up  to  the  wind  so 
suddenly  as  to  shoot  the  unwary  occupants  off,  and 
send  them  skating  on  their  noses  some  yards. 

Navigation  on  the  Hudson  stops  about  the  last 
of  November.  There  is  usually  more  or  less  float- 
ing ice  by  that  time,  and  the  river  may  close  very 
abruptly.  Beside  that,  new  ice  an  inch  or  two 
thick  is  the  most  dangerous  of  all;  it  will  cut 
through  a  vessel's  hull  like  a  knife.  In  1875  there 
was  a  sudden  fall  of  the  mercury  the  28th  of  No- 
vember. The  hard  and  merciless  cold  came  down 
upon  the  naked  earth  with  great  intensity.  On  the 
29th  the  ground  was  a  rock,  and,  after  the  sun  went 
down,  the  sky  all  around  the  horizon  looked  like 
a  wall  of  chilled  iron.  The  river  was  quickly  cov- 
ered with  great  floating  fields  of  smooth,  thin  ice. 


A    RIVER    VIEW  195 

About  three  o'clock  the  next  morning  —  the  mer- 
cury two  degrees  below  zero  —  the  silence  of  our 
part  of  the  river  was  suddenly  broken  by  the  alarm 
bell  of  a  passing  steamer;  she  was  in  the  jaws  of 
the  icy  legions,  and  was  crying  for  help;  many 
sleepers  alongshore  remembered  next  day  that  the 
sound  of  a  bell  had  floated  across  their  dreams, 
without  arousing  them.  One  man  was  awakened 
before  long  by  a  loud  pounding  at  his  door.  On 
opening  it,  a  tall  form,  wet  and  icy,  fell  in  upon 
him  with  the  cry,  "  The  Sunny  side  is  sunk !  "  The 
man  proved  to  be  one  of  her  officers,  and  was  in 
quest  of  help.  He  had  made  his  way  up  a  long 
hill  through  the  darkness,  his  wet  clothes  freezing 
upon  him,  and  his  strength  gave  way  the  moment 
succor  was  found.  Other  dwellers  in  the  vicinity 
were  aroused,  and  with  their  boats  rendered  all  the 
assistance  possible.  The  steamer  sank  but  a  few 
yards  from  shore,  only  a  part  of  her  upper  deck 
remaining  above  water,  yet  a  panic  among  the  pas- 
sengers —  the  men  behaving  very  badly  —  swamped 
the  boats  as  they  were  being  filled  with  the  women, 
and  a  dozen  or  more  persons  were  drowned. 

When  the  river  is  at  its  wildest,  usually  in 
March,  the  eagles  appear.  They  prowl  about  amid 
the  ice-floes,  alighting  upon  them  or  flying  heavily 
above  them  in  quest  of  fish,  or  a  wounded  duck  or 
other  game. 

I  have  counted  ten  of  these  noble  birds  at  one 
time,  some  seated  grim  and  motionless  upon  cakes  of 
ice,  —  usually  surrounded  by  crows,  —  others  flap- 


196  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

ping  along,  sharply  scrutinizing  the  surface  beneath. 
Where  the  eagles  are,  there  the  crows  do  congregate. 
The  crow  follows  the  eagle,  as  the  jackal  follows 
the  lion,  in  hope  of  getting  the  leavings  of  the  royal 
table.  Then  I  suspect  the  crow  is  a  real  hero- wor- 
shiper. I  have  seen  a  dozen  or  more  of  them  sit- 
ting in  a  circle  about  an  eagle  upon  the  ice,  all  with 
their  faces  turned  toward  him,  and  apparently  in 
silent  admiration  of  the  dusky  king. 

The  eagle  seldom  or  never  turns  -his  back  upon 
a  storm.  I  think  he  loves  to  face  the  wildest  ele- 
mental commotion.  I  shall  long  carry  the  picture 
of  one  I  saw  floating  northward  on  a  large  raft  of 
ice  one  day,  in  the  face  of  a  furious  gale  of  snow. 
He  stood  with  his  talons  buried  in  the  ice,  his  head 
straight  out  before  him,  his  closed  wings  showing 
their  strong  elbows,  —  a  type  of  stern  defiance  and 
power. 

This  great  metropolitan  river,  as  it  were,  with 
its  floating  palaces,  and  shores  lined  with  villas,  is 
thus  an  inlet  and  a  highway  of  the  wild  and  the 
savage.  The  wild  ducks  and  geese  still  follow  it 
north  in  spring,  and  south  in  the  fall.  The  loon 
pauses  in  his  migrations  and  disports  himself  in  its 
waters.     Seals  and  otters  are  occasionally  seen  in  it. 

Of  the  Hudson  it  may  be  said  that  it  is  a  very 
large  river  for  its  size,  —  that  is,  for  the  quantity 
of  water  it  discharges  into  the  sea.  Its  water-shed 
is  comparatively  small,  —  less,  I  think,  than  that  of 
the  Connecticut. 

It  is  a  huge  trough  with  a  very  slight  incline, 


A    RIVER    VIEW  197 

through  which  the  current  moves  very  slowly,  and 
which  would  fill  from  the  sea  were  its  supplies  from 
the  mountains  cut  off.  Its  fall  from  Albany  to  the 
bay  is  only  about  five  feet.  Any  object  upon  it, 
drifting  with  the  current,  progresses  southward  no 
more  than  eight  miles  in  twenty-four  hours.  The 
ebb  tide  will  carry  it  about  twelve  miles,  and  the 
flood  set  it  back  from  seven  to  nine.  A  drop  of 
water  at  Albany,  therefore,  will  be  nearly  three 
weeks  in  reaching  New  York,  though  it  will  get 
pretty  well  pickled  some  days  earlier. 

Some  rivers  by  their  volume  and  impetuosity 
penetrate  the  sea,  but  here  the  sea  is  the  aggressor, 
and  sometimes  meets  the  mountain  water  nearly 
half  way. 

This  fact  was  illustrated  a  few  years  ago,  when 
the  basin  of  the  Hudson  was  visited  by  one  of  the 
most  severe  droughts  ever  known  in  this  part  of  the 
State.  In  the  early  winter,  after  the  river  was 
frozen  over  above  Poughkeepsie,  it  was  discovered 
that  immense  numbers  of  fish  were  retreating  up- 
stream before  the  slow  encroachment  of  the  salt 
water.  There  was  a  general  exodus  of  the  finny 
tribes  from  the  whole  lower  part  of  the  river;  it 
was  like  the  spring  and  fall  migration  of  the  birds, 
ot  the  fleeing  of  the  population  of  a  district  before 
some  approaching  danger:  vast  swarms  of  catfish, 
•white  and  yellow  perch,  and  striped  bass  were  en 
route  for  the  fresh  water  farther  north.  When  the 
people  alongshore  made  the  discovery,  they  turned 
out    as    they  do    in   the    rural    districts   when    the 


198  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

pigeons  appear,  and,  with  small  gillnets  let  down 
through  holes  in  the  ice,  captured  them  in  fabulous 
numbers.  On  the  heels  of  the  retreating  perch  and 
catfish  came  the  denizens  of  salt  water,  and  codfish 
were  taken  ninety  miles  above  New  York.  When 
the  February  thaw  came,  and  brought  up  the  vol- 
ume of  fresh  water  again,  the  sea  brine  was  beaten 
back,  and  the  fish,  what  were  left  of  them,  resumed 
their  old  feeding-grounds. 

It  is  this  character  of  the  Hudson,  this  encroach- 
ment of  the  sea  upon  it,  that  has  led  Professor 
Newberry  to  speak  of  it  as  a  drowned  river.  We 
have  heard  of  drowned  lands,  but  here  is  a  river 
overflowed  and  submerged  in  the  same  manner.  It 
is  quite  certain,  however,  that  this  has  not  always 
been  the  character  of  the  Hudson.  Its  great  trough 
bears  evidence  of  having  been  worn  to  its  present 
dimensions  by  much  swifter  and  stronger  currents 
than  those  that  course  through  it  now.  Hence 
Professor  Newberry  has  advanced  the  bold  and 
striking  theory  that  in  pre-glacial  times  this  part 
of  the  continent  was  several  hundred  feet  higher 
than  at  present,  and  that  the  Hudson  was  then  a 
very  large  and  rapid  stream,  that  drew  its  main 
supplies  from  the  basin  of  the  Great  Lakes  through 
an  ancient  river-bed  that  followed  pretty  nearly  the 
line  of  the  present  Mohawk ;  in  other  words,  that 
the  waters  of  the  St.  Lawrence  once  found  an  out- 
let through  this  channel,  debouching  into  the  ocean 
from  a  broad,  littoral  plain,  at  a  point  eighty  miles 
southeast  of  New  York,   where  the  sea  now  rolls 


A   RIVER   VIEW  199 

five  hundred  feet  deep.  According  to  the  sound- 
ings of  the  coast  survey,  this  ancient  bed  of  the 
Hudson  is  distinctly  marked  upon  the  ocean  floor 
to  the  point  indicated. 

To  the  gradual  subsidence  of  this  part  of  the 
continent,  in  connection  with  the  great  changes 
wrought  by  the  huge  glacier  that  crept  down  from 
the  north  during  what  is  called  the  ice  period,  is 
owing  the  character  and  aspects  of  the  Hudson  as 
we  see  and  know  them.  The  Mohawk  valley  was 
filled  up  by  the  drift,  and  the  pent-up  waters  of 
the  Great  Lakes  found  an  opening  through  what  is 
now  the  St.  Lawrence.  The  trough  of  the  Hudson 
was  also  partially  filled,  and  has  remained  so  to  the 
present  day.  There  is,  perhaps,  no  point  in  the 
river  where  the  mud  and  clay  are  not  from  two  to 
three  times  as  deep  as  the  water. 

That  ancient  and  grander  Hudson  lies  back  of  us 
several  hundred  thousand  years,  — ^  perhaps  more, 
for  a  million  years  are  but  as  one  tick  of  the  time- 
piece of  the  Lord;  yet  even  it  was  a  juvenile  com- 
pared with  some  of  the  rocks  and  mountains  the 
Hudson  of  to-day  mirrors.  The  Highlands  date 
from  the  earliest  geological  age,  —  the  primary ;  the 
river  —  the  old  river  —  from  the  latest,  the  ter- 
tiary; and  what  that  diff'erence  means  in  terrestrial 
years  hath  not  entered  into  the  mind  of  man  to 
conceive.  Yet  how  the  venerable  mountains  open 
their  ranks  for  the  stripling  to  pass  through.  Of 
course  the  river  did  not  force  its  way  through  this 
barrier,  but  has  doubtless  found  an  opening  there 


200  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

of  which   it   has   availed  itself,   and  which   it  has 
enlarged. 

In  thinking  of  these  things,  one  only  has  to  allow 
time  enough,  and  the  most  stupendous  changes  in 
the  topography  of  the  country  are  as  easy  and  natu- 
ral as  the  going  out  or  the  coming  in  of  spring  or 
summer.  According  to  the  authority  above  referred 
to,  that  part  of  our  coast  that  flanks  the  mouth  of 
the  Hudson  is  still  sinking  at  the  rate  of  a  few 
inches  per  century,  so  that  in  the  twinkling  of  a 
hundred  thousand  years  or  so  the  sea  will  com- 
pletely submerge  the  city  of  New  York,  the  top  of 
Trinity  Church  steeple  alone  standing  above  the 
flood.  We  who  live  so  far  inland,  and  sigh  for  the 
salt  water,  need  only  to  have  a  little  patience,  and 
we  shall  wake  up  some  fine  morning  and  find  the 
surf  beating  upon  our  doorsteps. 


XI 

BIRD    ENEMIES 

"1  row  surely  the  birds  know  their  enemies! 
-* — *-  See  how  the  Avrens  and  robins  and  bluebirds 
pursue  and  scold  the  cat,  while  they  take  little  or 
no  notice  of  the  dog!  Even  the  swallow  will  fight 
the  cat,  and,  relying  too  confidently  upon  its  pow- 
ers of  flight,  sometimes  swoops  down  so  near  to  its 
enemy  that  it  is  caught  by  a  sudden  stroke  of  the 
cat's  paw.  The  only  case  I  know  of  in  which  our 
small  birds  fail  to  recognize  their  enemy  is  furnished 
by  the  shrike ;  apparently  the  little  birds  do  not 
know  that  this  modest-colored  bird  is  an  assassin. 
At  least  I  have  never  seen  them  scold  or  molest 
him,  or  utter  any  outcries  at  his  presence,  as  they 
usually  do  at  birds  of  prey.  Probably  it  is  because 
the  shrike  is  a  rare  visitant,  and  is  not  found  in  this 
part  of  the  country  during  the  nesting  season  of  our 
songsters. 

But  the  birds  have  nearly  all  found  out  the  trick 
of  the  jay,  and,  when  he  comes  sneaking  through 
the  trees  in  May  and  June  in  quest  of  eggs,  he  is 
quickly  exposed  and  roundly  abused.  It  is  amus- 
ing to  see  the  robins  hustle  him  out  of  the  tree 
which  holds  their  nest.      They  cry,  "Thief,  thief!  " 


202  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

to  the  top  of  their  voices  as  they  charge  upon  him, 
and  the  jay  retorts  in  a  voice  scarcely  less  compli- 
mentary as  he  makes  off. 

The  jays  have  their  enemies  also,  and  need  to 
keep  an  eye  on  their  own  eggs.  It  would  be  inter- 
esting to  know  if  jays  ever  rob  jays,  or  crows  plun- 
der crows;  or  is  there  honor  among  thieves  even  in 
the  feathered  tribes?  I  suspect  the  jay  is  often 
punished  by  birds  which  are  otherwise  innocent  of 
nest-robbing.  One  season  I  found  a  jay's  nest  in 
a  small  cedar  on  the  side  of  a  wooded  ridge.  It 
held  five  eggs,  every  one  of  which  had  been  punc- 
tured. Apparently  some  bird  had  driven  its  sharp 
beak  through  their  shells,  with  the  sole  intention  of 
destroying  them,  for  no  part  of  the  contents  of  the 
eggs  had  been  removed.  It  looked  like  a  case  of 
revenge;  as  if  some  thrush  or  warbler,  whose  nest 
had  suffered  at  the  hands  of  the  jays,  had  watched 
its  opportunity  and  had  in  this  way  retaliated  upon 
its  enemies.  An  egg  for  an  egg.  The  jays  were 
lingering  near,  very  demure  and  silent,  and  probably 
ready  to  join  a  crusade  against  nest- robbers. 

The  great  bugaboo  of  the  birds  is  the  owl.  The 
owl  snatches  them  from  off  their  roosts  at  night, 
and  gobbles  up  their  eggs  and  young  in  their  nests. 
He  is  a  veritable  ogre  to  them,  and  his  presence 
fills  them  with  consternation  and  alarm. 

One  season,  to  protect  my  early  cherries,  I  placed 
a  large  stuffed  owl  amid  the  branches  of  the  tree. 
Such  a  racket  as  there  instantly  began  about  my 
grounds  is  not  pleasant  to  think  upon !     The  orioles 


BIRD    ENEMIES  203 

and  robins  fairly  "shrieked  out  their  affright." 
The  news  instantly  spread  in  every  direction,  and 
apparently  every  bird  in  town  came  to  see  that  owl 
in  the  cherry-tree,  and  every  bird  took  a  cherry,  so 
that  I  lost  more  fruit  than  if  I  had  left  the  owl 
indoors.  With  craning  necks  and  horrified  looks 
the  birds  alighted  upon  the  branches,  and  between 
their  screams  would  snatch  off  a  cherry,  as  if  the 
act  was  some  relief  to  their  outraged  feelings. 

The  chirp  and  chatter  of  the  young  of  birds 
which  build  in  concealed  or  inclosed  places,  like 
the  woodpeckers,  the  house  wren,  the  high-hole, 
the  oriole,  etc.,  is  in  marked  contrast  to  the  silence 
of  the  fledgelings  of  most  birds  that  build  open  and 
exposed  nests.  The  young  of  the  sparrows,  — un- 
less the  social  sparrow  be  an  exception,  —  warblers, 
flycatchers,  thrushes,  etc.,  never  allow  a  sound  to 
escape  them,  and,  on  the  alarm  note  of  their  parents 
being  heard,  sit  especially  close  and  motionless, 
while  the  young  of  chimney  swallows,  woodpeckers, 
and  oriole  are  very  noisy.  The  latter,  in  their  deep 
pouch,  are  quite  safe  from  birds  of  prey,  except  per- 
haps the  owl.  The  owl,  I  suspect,  thrusts  its  leg 
into  the  cavities  of  woodpeckers  and  into  the  pocket- 
like nest  of  the  oriole,  and  clutches  and  brings  forth 
the  birds  in  its  talons.  In  one  case  which  I  heard 
of,  a  screech  owl  had  thrust  its  claw  into  a  cavity 
in  a  tree,  and  grasped  the  head  of  a  red-headed 
woodpecker;  being  apparently  unable  to  draw  its 
prey  forth,  it  had  thrust  its  own  round  head  into 
the  hole,  and  in  some  way  became  fixed  tliere,  and 
had  thus  died  with  the  woodpecker  in  its  talons. 


204  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

The  life  of  birds  is  beset  with  dangers  and  mis- 
haps of  which  we  know  little.  One  day,  in  my 
walk,  I  came  upon  a  goldfinch  with  the  tip  of  one 
wing  securely  fastened  to  the  feathers  of  its  rump 
by  what  appeared  to  be  the  silk  of  some  caterpillar. 
The  bird,  though  uninjured,  was  completely  crip- 
pled, and  could  not  fly  a  stroke.  Its  little  body 
was  hot  and  panting  in  my  hands,  as  I  carefully 
broke  the  fetter.  Then  it  darted  swiftly  away  with 
a  happy  cry.  A  record  of  all  the  accidents  and 
tragedies  of  bird  life  for  a  single  season  would  show 
many  curious  incidents.  A  friend  of  mine  opened 
his  box  stove  one  fall  to  kindle  a  fire  in  it,  when 
he  beheld  in  the  black  interior  the  desiccated  forms 
of  two  bluebirds.  The  birds  had  probably  taken 
refuge  in  the  chimney  during  some  cold  spring 
storm,  and  had  come  down  the  pipe  to  the  stove, 
from  whence  they  were  unable  to  ascend.  A  pecu- 
liarly touching  little  incident  of  bird  life  occurred 
to  a  caged  female  canary.  Though  unmated,  it  laid 
some  eggs,  and  the  happy  bird  was  so  carried  away 
by  her  feelings  that  she  would  offer  food  to  the 
eggs,  and  chatter  and  twitter,  trying,  as  it  seemed, 
to  encourage  them  to  eat !  The  incident  is  hardly 
tragic,  neither  is  it  comic. 

Certain  birds  nest  in  the  vicinity  of  our  houses 
and  outbuildings,  or  even  in  and  upon  them,  for 
protection  from  their  enemies,  but  they  often  thus 
expose  themselves  to  a  plague  of  the  most  deadly 
character. 

I   refer   to   the   vermin   with   which   their   nests 


BIRD    ENEMIES  205 

often  swarm,  and  which  kill  the  young  before  they 
are  fledged.  In  a  state  of  nature  this  probably 
never  happens;  at  least  I  have  never  seen  or  heard 
of  it  happening  to  nests  placed  in  trees  or  under 
rocks.  It  is  the  curse  of  civilization  falling  upon 
the  birds  which  come  too  near  man.  The  vermin, 
or  the  germ  of  the  vermin,  is  probably  conveyed  to 
the  nest  in  hen's  feathers,  or  in  straws  and  hairs 
picked  up  about  the  barn  or  hen-house.  A  robin's 
nest  upon  your  porch  or  in  your  summer-house  will 
occasionally  become  an  intolerable  nuisance  from 
the  swarms  upon  swarms  of  minute  vermin  with 
which  it  is  filled.  The  parent  birds  stem  the  tide 
as  long  as  they  can,  but  are  often  compelled  to  leave 
the  young  to  their  terrible  fate. 

One  season  a  phoebe-bird  built  on  a  projecting 
stone  under  the  eaves  of  the  house,  and  all  appeared 
to  go  well  till  the  young  were  nearly  fledged,  when 
the  nest  suddenly  became  a  bit  of  purgatory.  The 
birds  kept  their  places  in  their  burning  bed  till  they 
could  hold  out  no  longer,  when  they  leaped  forth 
and  fell  dead  upon  the  ground. 

After  a  delay  of  a  week  or  more,  during  which 
I  imagine  the  parent  birds  purified  themselves  by 
every  means  known  to  them,  the  couple  built  an- 
other nest  a  few  yards  from  the  first,  and  proceeded 
to  rear  a  second  brood ;  but  the  new  nest  developed 
into  the  same  bed  of  torment  that  the  first  did,  and 
the  three  young  birds,  nearly  ready  to  fly,  perished 
as  they  sat  within  it.  The  parent  birds  then  left 
the  place  as  if  it  had  been  accursed. 


206  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

I  imagine  the  smaller  birds  have  an  enemy  in 
our  native  white-footed  mouse,  though  I  have  not 
proof  enough  to  convict  him.  But  one  season  the 
nest  of  a  chickadee  which  I  was  observing  was 
broken  up  in  a  position  where  nothing  but  a  mouse 
could  have  reached  it.  The  bird  had  chosen  a 
cavity  in  the  limb  of  an  apple-tree  which  stood  but 
a  few  yards  from  the  house.  The  cavity  was  deep, 
and  the  entrance  to  it,  which  was  ten  feet  from  the 
ground,  was  small.  Barely  light  enough  was  ad- 
mitted, when  the  sun  was  in  the  most  favorable 
position,  to  enable  one  to  make  out  the  number  of 
eggs,  which  was  six,  at  the  bottom  of  the  dim  inte- 
rior. While  one  was  peering  in  and  trying  to  get 
his  head  out  of  his  own  light,  the  bird  would  star- 
tle him  by  a  queer  kind  of  puffing  sound.  She 
would  not  leave  her  nest  like  most  birds,  but  really 
tried  to  blow,  or  scare,  the  intruder  away;  and 
after  repeated  experiments  I  could  hardly  refrain 
from  jerking  my  head  back  when  that  little  explo- 
sion of  sound  came  up  from  the  dark  interior.  One 
night,  when  incubation  was  about  half  finished,  the 
nest  was  harried.  A  slight  trace  of  hair  or  fur  at 
the  entrance  led  me  to  infer  that  some  small  animal 
was  the  robber.  A  weasel  might  have  done  it,  as 
they  sometimes  climb  trees,  but  I  doubt  if  either 
a  squirrel  or  a  rat  could  have  passed  the  entrance. 

Probably  few  persons  have  ever  suspected  the  cat- 
bird of  being  an  egg-sucker;  I  do  not  know  as  she 
has  ever  been  accused  of  such  a  thing,  but  there 
is  something  uncanny  and  disagreeable   about  her. 


BIRD   ENEMIES  207 

which  I  at  once  understood  when  I  one  day  caught 
her  in  the  very  act  of  going  through  a  nest  of  eggs. 
A  pair  of  the  least  flycatchers,    the  bird  which 
says  chebec,  chehec,   and  is  a  small  edition  of  the 
pewecj    one   season    built   their   nest   where   I   had 
them  for  many  hours  each  day  under  my  observa- 
tion.     The  nest  was  a  very  snug  and  compact  struc- 
ture   placed   in   the  forks   of  a  small  maple   about 
twelve  feet  from  the  ground.      The  season  before,  a 
red  squirrel  had  harried  the  nest  of  a  wood  thrush 
in  this  same  tree,  and  I  was  apprehensive  that  he 
would  serve  the  flycatchers  the  same  trick;  so,  as 
I  sat  with  my  book  in  a  summer-house  near  by,  I 
kept  my  loaded  gun  within  easy  reach.      One  egg 
was  laid,  and  the  next  morning,  as  I  made  my  daily 
inspection  of  the  nest,  only  a  fragment  of  its  empty 
shell  was  to  be  found.      This  I  removed,    mentally 
imprecating  the  rogue  of  a  red  squirrel.      The  birds 
were   much   disturbed  by   the   event,    but   did   not 
desert  the  nest,    as  I  had  feared   they  would,    but 
after  much  inspection  of  it,  and  many  consultations 
together,  concluded,    it  seems,    to  try  again.      Two 
more   eggs  were   laid,    when   one  day   I   heard  the 
birds  utter  a  sharp  cry,    and  on  looking  up  I  saw 
a  catbird  perched  upon  the  rim  of  the  nest,  hastily 
devouring  the  eggs.      I  soon  regretted  my  precipi- 
tation in  killing  her,    because  such  interference  is 
generally  unwise.      It   turned   out   that  she  had  a 
nest  of  her  own  with  five  eggs,  in  a  spruce-tree  near 
my  window. 

Then  this  pair   of  little   flycatchers  did  what  I 


208  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

had  never  seen  birds  do  before:  they  pulled  the 
nest  to  pieces  and  rebuilt  it  in  a  peach-tree  not 
many  rods  away,  where  a  brood  was  successfully 
reared.  The  nest  was  here  exposed  to  the  direct 
rays  of  the  noonday  sun,  and,  to  shield  her  young 
when  the  heat  was  greatest,  the  mother  bird  would 
stand  above  them  with  wings  slightly  spread,  as 
other  birds  have  been  known  to  do  under  like  cir- 
cumstances. 

To  what  extent  the  catbird  is  a  nest-robber  I 
have  no  evidence;  but  that  feline  mew  of  hers,  and 
that  flirting,  flexible  tail,  suggest  something  not 
entirely  bird-like. 

Probably  the  darkest  tragedy  of  the  nest  is 
enacted  when  a  snake  plunders  it.  All  birds  and 
animals,  so  far  as  I  have  observed,  behave  in  a 
peculiar  manner  toward  a  snake.  They  seem  to 
feel  something  of  the  same  loathing  toward  it  that 
the  human  species  experience.  The  bark  of  a  dog 
when  he  encounters  a  snake  is  difl'erent  from  that 
which  he  gives  out  on  any  other  occasion ;  it  is  a 
mingled  note  of  alarm,  inquiry,  and  disgust. 

One  day  a  tragedy  was  enacted  a  few  yards  from 
where  I  was  sitting  with  a  book :  two  song  sparrows 
were  trying  to  defend  their  nest  against  a  black 
snake.  The  curious,  interrogating  note  of  a  chicken 
who  had  suddenly  come  upon  the  scene  in  his  walk 
first  caused  me  to  look  up  from  my  reading.  There 
were  the  sparrows,  Avith  wings  raised  in  a  way 
peculiarly  expressive  of  horror  and  dismay,  rushing 
about   a   low  clump   of   grass  and   bushes.      Then, 


BIRD    ENEMIES  209 

looking  more  closely,  I  saw  the  glistening  form  of 
the  black  snake,  and  the  quick  movement  of  his 
head  as  he  tried  to  seize  the  birds.  The  sparrows 
darted  about  and  through  the  grass  and  weeds,  try- 
ing to  beat  the  snake  off.  Their  tails  and  wings 
were  spread,  and,  panting  with  the  heat  and  the 
desperate  struggle,  they  presented  a  most  singular 
spectacle.  They  uttered  no  cry,  not  a  sound  es- 
caped them;  they  were  plainly  speechless  with  hor- 
ror and  dismay.  Not  once  did  they  drop  their 
wings,  and  the  peculiar  expression  of  those  uplifted 
palms,  as  it  were,  I  shall  never  forget.  It  occurred 
to  me  that  perhaps  here  was  a  case  of  attempted 
bird-charming  on  the  part  of  the  snake,  so  I  looked 
on  from  behind  the  fence.  The  birds  charged  the 
snake  and  harassed  him  from  every  side,  but  were 
evidently  under  no  spell  save  that  of  courage  in 
defending  their  nest.  Every  moment  or  two  I 
could  see  the  head  and  neck  of  the  serpent  make 
a  sweep  at  the  birds,  when  the  one  struck  at  would 
fall  back,  and  the  other  would  renew  the  assault 
from  the  rear.  There  appeared  to  be  little  danger 
that  the  snake  could  strike  and  hold  one  of  the 
birds,  though  I  trembled  for  them,  they  were  so 
bold  and  approached  so  near  to  the  snake's  head. 
Time  and  again  he  sprang  at  them,  but  without 
success.  How  the  poor  things  panted,  and  held 
up  their  wings  appealingly !  Then  the  snake  glided 
off  to  the  near  fence,  barely  escaping  the  stone 
which  I  hurled  at  him.  I  found  the  nest  rifled 
and   deranged;   whether   it   had   contained   eggs   or 


210  SIGNS    AND   SEASONS 

young,  I  know  not.  The  male  sparrow  had  cheered 
me  many  a  day  with  his  song,  and  I  blamed  myself 
for  not  having  rushed  at  once  to  the  rescue,  when 
the  arch  enemy  was  upon  him.  There  is  probably 
little  truth  in  the  popular  notion  that  snakes  charm 
birds.  The  black  snake  is  the  most  subtle,  alert, 
and  devilish  of  our  snakes,  and  I  have  never  seen 
him  have  any  but  young,  helpless  birds  in  his 
mouth. 

We  have  one  parasitical  bird,  the  cowbird,  so 
called  because  it  walks  about  amid  the  grazing  cattle 
and  seizes  the  insects  which  their  heavy  tread  sets 
going,  which  is  an  enemy  of  most  of  the  smaller 
birds.  It  drops  its  egg  in  the  nest  of  the  song 
sparrow,  the  social  sparrow,  the  snowbird,  the 
vireos,  and  the  wood-warblers,  and  as  a  rule  it  is 
the  only  egg  in  the  nest  that  issues  successfully. 
Either  the  eggs  of  the  rightful  owner  of  the  nest 
are  not  hatched,  or  else  the  young  are  overridden 
and  overreached  by  the  parasite,  and  perish  prema- 
turely. 

Among  the  worst  enemies  of  our  birds  are  the 
so-called  "collectors,"  men  who  plunder  nests  and 
murder  their  owners  in  the  name  of  science.  Not 
the  genuine  ornithologist,  for  no  one  is  more  careful 
of  squandering  bird  life  than  he;  but  the  sham 
ornithologist,  the  man  whose  vanity  or  afifectation 
happens  to  take  an  ornithological  turn.  He  is 
seized  with  an  itching  for  a  collection  of  eggs  and 
birds  because  it  happens  to  be  the  fashion,  or  be- 
cause it  gives  him  the  air  of  a  man  of  science.      But 


BIKD    ENEMIES  211 

in  the  majority  of  cases  the  motive  is  a  mercenary 
one;  the  collector  expects  to  sell  these  spoils  of  the 
groves  and  orchards.  Robbing  nests  and  killing 
birds  becomes  a  business  with  him.  He  goes  about 
it  systematically,  and  becomes  an  expert  in  circum- 
venting and  slaying  our  songsters.  Every  town  of 
any  considerable  size  is  infested  with  one  or  more 
of  these  bird  highwaymen,  and  every  nest  in  the 
country  round  about  that  the  wretches  can  lay  hands 
on  is  harried.  Their  professional  term  for  a  nest 
of  eggs  is  "a  clutch,"  a  word  that  well  expresses 
the  work  of  their  grasping,  murderous  fingers. 
They  clutch  and  destroy  in  the  germ  the  life  and 
music  of  the  woodlands.  Certain  of  our  natural 
history  journals  are  mainly  organs  of  communica- 
tion between  these  human  weasels.  They  record 
their  exploits  at  nest-robbing  and  bird-slaying  in 
their  columns.  One  collector  tells  with  gusto  how 
he  "  worked  his  way  "  through  an  orchard,  ransack- 
ing every  tree  and  leaving,  as  he  believed,  not  one 
nest  behind  him.  He  had  better  not  be  caught 
working  his  way  through  my  orchard.  Another 
gloats  over  the  number  of  Connecticut  warblers  — 
a  rare  bird  —  he  killed  in  one  season  in  Massachu- 
setts. Another  tells  how  a  mockingbird  appeared 
in  southern  New  England  and  was  hunted  down  by 
himself  and  friend,  its  eggs  ''clutched,"  and  the 
bird  killed.  Who  knows  how  much  the  bird-lovers 
of  New  England  lost  by  that  foul  deed !  The  pro- 
geny of  the  birds  would  probably  have  returned  to 
Connecticut  to  breed,  and  their  progeny,  or  a  part 


212  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

of  them,  the  same,  till  in  time  the  famous  Southern 
songster  would  have  become  a  regular  visitant  to 
New  England.  In  the  same  journal  still  another 
collector  describes  minutely  how  he  outwitted  three 
hummingbirds  and  captured  their  nests  and  eggs, 
—  a  clutch  he  was  very  proud  of.  A  Massachu- 
setts bird-harrier  boasts  of  his  clutch  of  the  eggs  of 
that  dainty  little  warbler,  the  blue  yellow-back. 
One  season  he  took  two  sets,  the  next  five  sets,  the 
next  four  sets,  beside  some  single  eggs,  and  the 
next  season  four  sets,  and  says  he  might  have  found 
more  had  he  had  more  time.  One  season  he  took, 
in  about  twenty  days,  three  sets  from  one  tree.  I 
have  heard  of  a  collector  who  boasted  of  having 
taken  one  hundred  sets  of  the  eggs  of  the  marsh 
wren  in  a  single  day;  of  another  who  took,  in  the 
same  time,  thirty  nests  of  the  yellow-breasted  chat; 
and  of  still  another  who  claimed  to  have  taken  one 
thousand  sets  of  eggs  of  different  birds  in  one  sea- 
son. A  large  business  has  grown  up  under  the 
influence  of  this  collecting  craze.  One  dealer  in 
eggs  has  those  of  over  five  hundred  species.  He 
says  that  his  business  in  1883  was  twice  that  of 
1882;  in  1884  it  was  twice  that  of  1883,  and  so 
on.  Collectors  vie  with  each  other  in  the  extent 
and  variety  of  their  cabinets.  They  not  only  obtain 
eggs  in  sets,  but  aim  to  have  a  number  of  sets  of 
the  same  bird,  so  as  to  show  all  possible  variations. 
I  hear  of  a  private  collection  that  contains  twelve 
sets  of  kingbirds'  eggs,  eight  sets  of  house  wrens' 
eggs,  four  sets  of  mockingbirds'   eggs,  etc.  ;  sets  of 


BIRD    ENEMIES  213 

eggs  taken  in  low  trees,  high  trees,  medium  trees; 
spotted  sets,  dark  sets,  plain  sets,  and  light  sets 
of  the  same  species  of  bird.  Many  collections  are 
made  on  this  latter  plan. 

Thus  are  our  birds  hunted  and  cut  off,  and  all 
in  the  name  of  science ;  as  if  science  had  not  long 
ago  finished  with  these  birds.  She  has  weighed 
and  measured  and  dissected  and  described  them,  and 
their  nests  and  eggs,  and  placed  them  in  her  cabi- 
net; and  the  interest  of  science  and  of  humanity 
now  demands  that  this  wholesale  nest-robbing  cease. 
These  incidents  I  have  given  above,  it  is  true,  are 
but  drops  in  the  bucket,  but  the  bucket  would  be 
more  than  full  if  we  could  get  all  the  facts.  Where 
one  man  publishes  his  notes,  hundreds,  perhaps  thou- 
sands, say  nothing,  but  go  as  silently  about  their 
nest-robbing  as  weasels. 

It  is  true  that  the  student  of  ornithology  often 
feels  compelled  to  take  bird  life.      It  is  not  an  easy 
matter   to   "name   all    the    birds   without   a   gun," 
though  an  opera-glass  will  often  render  identifica- 
tion  entirely   certain,    and   leave   the   songster   un- 
harmed;  but,  once  having  mastered  the  birds,  the 
true  ornithologist  leaves  his   gun  at  home.      This 
view  of  the  case  may  not  be  agreeable  to  that  desic- 
cated mortal  called  the  "closet  naturalist,"  but  for 
my  own  part  the  closet  naturalist  is  a  person  with 
whom  I  have  very  little  sympathy.      He  is  about 
the  most  wearisome  and  profitless  creature  in  exist- 
ence.     With  his  piles  of  skins,  his  cases  of  eggs, 
his  laborious   feather-splitting,    and   his    outlandish 


214  SIGNS    AND    SEASONS 

nomenclature,  he  is  not  only  the  enemy  of  the  birds, 
but  the  enemy  of  all  those  who  would  know  them 
rightly. 

Not  the  collectors  alone  are  to  blame  for  the 
diminishing  numbers  of  our  wild  birds,  but  a  large 
share  of  the  responsibility  rests  upon  quite  a  differ- 
ent class  of  persons,  namely,  the  milliners.  False 
taste  in  dress  is  as  destructive  to  our  feathered 
friends  as  are  false  aims  in  science.  It  is  said  that 
the  traffic  in  the  skins  of  our  brighter-plumaged 
birds,  arising  from  their  use  by  the  milliners,  reaches 
to  hundreds  of  thousands  annually.  I  am  told  of 
one  middleman  who  collected  from  the  shooters  in 
one  district,  in  four  months,  seventy  thousand  skins. 
It  is  a  barbarous  taste  that  craves  this  kind  of  orna- 
mentation. Think  of  a  woman  or  girl  of  real  refine- 
ment appearing  upon  the  street  with  her  head-gear 
adorned  with  the  scalps  of  our  songsters ! 

It  is  probably  true  that  the  number  of  our  birds 
destroyed  by  man  is  but  a  small  percentage  of  the 
number  cut  off  by  their  natural  enemies;  but  it  is 
to  be  remembered  that  those  he  destroys  are  in 
addition  to  those  thus  cut  off,  and  that  it  is  this 
extra  or  artificial  destruction  that  disturbs  the  bal- 
ance of  nature.  The  operation  of  natural  causes 
keeps  the  birds  in  check,  but  the  greed  of  the  col- 
lectors and  milliners  tends  to  their  extinction. 

I  can  pardon  a  man  who  wishes  to  make  a  collec- 
tion of  eggs  and  birds  for  his  own  private  use,  if 
he  will  content  himself  with  one  or  two  specimens 
of  a  kind,  though  he  will  find  any  collection  much 


BIRD    ENEMIES  215 

less  satisfactory  and  less  valuable  than  he  imagines; 
but  the  professional  nest-robber  and  skin-collector 
should  be  put  down,  either  by  legislation  or  with 
dogs  and  shotguns. 

I  have  remarked  above  that  there  is  probably 
very  little  truth  in  the  popular  notion  that  snakes 
can  "charm*'  birds.  But  two  of  my  correspondents 
have  each  furnished  me  with  an  incident  from  his 
own  experience  which  seems  to  confirm  the  popular 
belief.  One  of  them  writes  from  Georgia  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

"Some  twenty-eight  years  ago  I  was  in  Calaveras 
County,  California,  engaged  in  cutting  lumber. 
One  day,  in  coming  out  of  the  camp  or  cabin,  my 
attention  was  attracted  to  the  curious  action  of  a 
quail  in  the  air,  which,  instead  of  flying  low  and 
straight  ahead  as  usual,  was  some  fifty  feet  high, 
flying  in  a  circle,  and  uttering  cries  of  distress.  I 
watched  the  bird  and  saw  it  gradually  descend,  and 
following  with  my  eye  in  a  line  from  the  bird  to 
the  ground,  saw  a  large  snake  with  head  erect  and 
some  ten  or  twelve  inches  above  the  ground,  and 
mouth  wide  open,  and,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  gazing 
intently  on  the  quail  (I  was  about  thirty  feet  from 
the  snake).  The  quail  gradually  descended,  its 
circles  growing  smaller  and  smaller,  and  all  the  time 
uttering  cries  of  distress,  until  its  feet  were  within 
two  or  three  inches  of  the  mouth  of  the  snake, 
when  I  threw  a  stone,  and,  though  not  hitting  the 
snake,  yet  struck  the  ground  so  near  as  to  frighten 
him,    and    he    gradually    started    off.      The    quail, 


216  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

however,  fell  to  the  ground,  apparently  lifeless.  I 
went  forward  and  picked  it  up,  and  found  it  was 
thoroughly  overcome  with  fright,  its  little  heart 
beating  as  if  it  would  burst  through  the  skin. 
After  holding  it  in  my  hand  a  few  moments  it  flew 
away.  I  then  tried  to  find  the  snake,  but  could 
not.  I  am  unable  to  say  whether  the  snake  was 
venomous,  or  belonged  to  the  constricting  family, 
like  the  black  snake.  I  can  well  recollect  it  was 
large  and  moved  off  rather  slow.  As  I  had  never 
seen  anything  of  the  kind  before,  it  made  a  great 
impression  on  my  mind,  and,  after  the  lapse  of  so 
long  a  time,  the  incident  appears  as  vivid  to  me  as 
though  it  had  occurred  yesterday." 

It  is  not  probable  that  the  snake  had  its  mouth 
open;  its  darting  tongue  may  have  given  that  im- 
pression. 

The  other  incident  comes  to  me  from  Vermont. 
"While  returning  from  church  in  1876,"  says  the 
writer,  "as  I  was  crossing  a  bridge  ...  I  noticed 
a  striped  snake  in  the  act  of  charming  a  song 
sparrow.  They  were  both  upon  the  sand  beneath 
the  bridge.  The  snake  kept  his  head  swaying 
slowly  from  side  to  side  and  darted  his  tongue  out 
continually.  The  bird,  not  over  a  foot  away,  was 
facing  the  snake,  hopping  from  one  foot  to  the 
other,  and  uttering  a  dissatisfied  little  chirp.  I 
watched  them  till  the  snake  seized  the  bird,  having 
gradually  drawn  nearer.  As  he  seized  it,  I  leaped 
over  the  side  of  the  bridge ;  the  snake  glided  away, 
and  I  took  up  the  bird,  which  he  had  dropped.      It 


BIRD   ENEMIES  217 

was  too  frightened  to  try  to  fly,    and  I  carried  it 
nearly  a  mile  before  it  flew  from  my  open  hand." 

If  these  observers  are  quite  sure  of  what  they 
saw,  then  undoubtedly  snakes  have  the  power  to 
draw  birds  within  their  grasp.  I  remember  that 
my  mother  once  told  me  that  while  gathering  wild 
strawberries  she  had  on  one  occasion  come  upon  a 
bird  fluttering  about  the  head  of  a  snake  as  if  held 
there  by  a  spell.  On  her  appearance,  the  snake 
lowered  its  head  and  made  ofi",  and  the  panting  bird 
flew  away.  A  black  snake  was  killed  by  a  neigh- 
bor of  mine  which  had  swallowed  a  full-grown  red 
squirrel,  probably  captured  by  the  same  power  of 
fascination. 


I 


XII 

PHASES   OF  FARM   LIFE 

HAVE    thought    that   a  good    test  of    civiliza- 
tion, perhaps  one  of  the  best,  is  country  life. 
Where   country   life  is  safe  and  enjoyable,    where 
many   of   the   conveniences   and   appliances   of   the 
town  are  joined  to  the  large  freedom  and  large  bene- 
fits of  the  country,  a  high  state  of  civilization  pre- 
vails.     Is  there  any  proper  country  life  in  Spain, 
in  Mexico,    in  the  South  American  States?     Man 
has  always  dwelt  in  cities,  but  he  has  not  always 
in  the  same  sense  been  a  dweller  in  the  country. 
Rude   and   barbarous  people   build  cities.      Hence, 
paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  the  city  is  older  than 
the  country.      Truly,  man  made  the  city,  and  after 
he  became  sufficiently  civilized,  not  afraid  of  soli- 
tude, and  knew  on  what  terms  to  live  with  nature, 
God   promoted   him   to   life  in  the  country.      The 
necessities  of  defense,  the  fear  of  enemies,  built  the 
first    city,    built   Rome,    Athens,    Carthage,    Paris. 
The  weaker  the  law,  the  stronger  the  city.      After 
Cain  slew  Abel  he  went  out  and  built  a  city,  and 
murder  or  the  fear  of  murder,  robbery  or  the  fear 
of    robbery,    have   built   most   of    the   cities   since. 
Penetrate  into  the   heart   of   Africa,   and   you  will 


220  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

find  the  people,  or  tribes,  all  living  in  villages  or 
little  cities.  You  step  from  the  jungle  or  forest 
into  the  town;  there  is  no  country.  The  best  and 
most  hopeful  feature  in  any  people  is  undoubtedly 
the  instinct  that  leads  them  to  the  country  and  to 
take  root  there,  and  not  that  which  sends  them 
flocking  to  the  town  and  its  distractions. 

The  lighter  the  snow,  the  more  it  drifts;  and  the 
more  frivolous  the  people,  the  more  they  are  blown 
by  one  wind  or  another  into  towns  and  cities. 

The  only  notable  exception  I  recall  to  city  life 
preceding  country  life  is  furnished  by  the  ancient 
Germans,  of  whom  Tacitus  says  that  they  had  no 
cities  or  contiguous  settlements.  "They  dwell  scat- 
tered and  separate,  as  a  spring,  a  meadow,  or  a 
grove  may  chance  to  invite  them.  Their  villages 
are  laid  out,  not  like  ours  [the  Romans]  in  rows  of 
adjoining  buildings,  but  every  one  surrounds  his 
house  with  a  vacant  space,  either  by  way  of  security, 
or  against  fire,  or  through  ignorance  of  the  art  of 
building. " 

These  ancient  Germans  were  indeed  true  country- 
men. Little  wonder  that  they  overran  the  empire 
of  the  city-loving  Romans,  and  finally  sacked  Rome 
itself.  How  hairy  and  hardy  and  virile  they  were! 
In  the  same  way  is  the  more  fresh  and  vigorous 
blood  of  the  country  always  making  eruptions  into 
the  city.  The  Goths  and  Vandals  from  the  woods 
and  the  farms,  —  what  would  Rome  do  without 
them,  after  all  ?  The  city  rapidly  uses  men  up ; 
families   run   out,    man   becomes   sophisticated   and 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE  221 

feeble.  A  fresh  stream  of  humanity  is  always  set- 
ting from  the  country  into  the  city;  a  stream  not 
so  fresh  flows  back  again  into  the  country,  a  stream 
for  the  most  part  of  jaded  and  pale  humanity.  It 
is  arterial  blood  when  it  flows  in,  and  venous  blood 
when  it  comes  back. 

A  nation  always  begins  to  rot  first  in  its  great 
cities,  is  indeed  perhaps  always  rotting  there,  and 
is  saved  only  by  the  antiseptic  virtues  of  fresh  sup- 
plies of  country  blood. 

But  it  is  not  of  country  life  in  general  that  I  am 
to  speak,  but  of  some  phases  of  farm  life,  and  of 
farm  life  in  my  native  State. 

Many  of  the  early  settlers  of  New  York  were 
from  New  England,  Connecticut  perhaps  sending 
out  the  most.  My  own  ancestors  were  from  the 
latter  State.  The  Connecticut  emigrant  usually 
made  his  first  stop  in  our  river  counties,  Putnam, 
Dutchess,  or  Columbia.  If  he  failed  to  find  his 
place  there,  he  made  another  flight  to  Orange,  to 
Delaware,  or  to  Schoharie  County,  where  he  gener- 
ally stuck.  But  the  State  early  had  one  element 
introduced  into  its  rural  and  farm  life  not  found 
farther  East,  namely,  the  Holland  Dutch.  These 
gave  features  more  or  less  picturesque  to  the  coun- 
try that  are  not  observable  in  New  England.  The 
Dutch  took  root  at  various  points  along  the  Hudson, 
and  about  Albany  and  in  the  Mohawk  valley,  and 
remnants  of  their  rural  and  domestic  architecture 
may  still  be  seen  in  these  sections  of  the  State.      A 


222  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

Dutch  barn  became  proverbial.  "As  broad  as  a 
Dutch  barn"  was  a  phrase  that,  when  applied  to 
the  person  of  a  man  or  woman,  left  room  for  little 
more  to  be  said.  The  main  feature  of  these  barns 
was  their  enormous  expansion  of  roof.  It  was  a 
comfort  to  look  at  them,  they  suggested  such  shel- 
ter and  protection.  The  eaves  were  very  low  and 
the  ridge-pole  very  high.  Long  rafters  and  short 
posts  gave  them  a  quaint,  short-waisted,  grandmo- 
therly look.  They  were  nearly  square,  and  stood 
very  broad  upon  the  ground.  Their  form  was 
doubtless  suggested  by  the  damper  climate  of  the 
Old  World,  where  the  grain  and  hay,  instead  of 
being  packed  in  deep  solid  mows,  used  to  be  spread 
upon  poles  and  exposed  to  the  currents  of  air  under 
the  roof.  Surface  and  not  cubic  capacity  is  more 
important  in  these  matters  in  Holland  than  in  this 
country.  Our  farmers  have  found  that,  in  a  climate 
where  there  is  so  much  weather  as  with  us,  the  less 
roof  you  have  the  better.  Roofs  will  leak,  and 
cured  hay  will  keep  sweet  in  a  mow  of  any  depth 
and  size  in  our  dry  atmosphere. 

The  Dutch  barn  was  the  most  picturesque  barn 
that  has  been  built,  especially  when  thatched  with 
straw,  as  they  nearly  all  were,  and  forming  one  side 
of  an  inclosure  of  lower  roofs  or  sheds  also  covered 
with  straw,  beneath  which  the  cattle  took  refuge 
from  the  winter  storms.  Its  immense,  unpainted 
gable,  cut  with  holes  for  the  swallows,  was  like  a 
section  of  a  respectable-sized  hill,  and  its  roof  like 
its  slope.      Its  great  doors  always  had  a  hood  pro- 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE  223 

jecting  over  them,  and  the  doors  themselves  were 
divided  horizontally  into  upper  and  lower  halves; 
the  upper  halves  very  frequently  being  left  open, 
through  which  you  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  mows 
of  hay,  or  the  twinkle  of  flails  when  the  grain  was 
being  threshed. 

The  old  Dutch  farmhouses,  too,  were  always 
pleasing  to  look  upon.  They  were  low,  often  made 
of  stone,  with  deep  window- jambs  and  great  family 
fireplaces.  The  outside  door,  like  that  of  the  barn, 
was  always  divided  into  upper  and  lower  halves. 
When  the  weather  permitted,  the  upper  half  could 
stand  open,  giving  light  and  air  without  the  cold 
draught  over  the  floor  where  the  children  were  play- 
ing that  our  wide-swung  doors  admit.  This  fea- 
ture of  the  Dutch  house  and  barn  certainly  merits 
preservation  in  our  modern  buildings. 

The  large,  unpainted  timber  barns  that  succeeded 
the  first  Yankee  settlers'  log  stables  were  also  pic- 
turesque, especially  when  a  lean-to  for  the  cow- 
stable  was  added,  and  the  roof  carried  down  with  a 
long  sweep  over  it;  or  when  the  barn  was  flanked 
by  an  open  shed  with  a  hayloft  above  it,  where 
the  hens  cackled  and  hid  their  nests,  and  from  the 
open  window  of  which  the  hay  was  always  hanging. 

Then  the  great  timbers  of  these  barns  and  the 
Dutch  barn,  hewn  from  maple  or  birch  or  oak  trees 
from  the  primitive  woods,  and  put  in  place  by  the 
combined  strength  of  all  the  brawny  arms  in  the 
neighborhood  when  the  barn  was  raised,  —  timbers 
strong   enough   and   heavy   enough   for    docks    and 


224  SIGNS    AND    SEASONS 

quays,  and  that  have  absorbed  the  odors  of  the  hay 
and  grain  until  they  look  ripe  and  mellow  and  full 
of  the  pleasing  sentiment  of  the  great,  sturdy, 
bountiful  interior !  The  "  big  beam  "  has  become 
smooth  and  polished  from  the  hay  that  has  been 
pitched  over  it,  and  the  sweaty,  sturdy  forms  that 
have  crossed  it.  One  feels  that  he  would  like  a 
piece  of  furniture  —  a  chair,  or  a  table,  or  a  writing- 
desk,  a  bedstead,  or  a  wainscoting  —  made  from 
these  long-seasoned,  long-tried,  richly-toned  timbers 
of  the  old  barn.  But  the  smart-painted,  natty  barn 
that  follows  the  humbler  structure,  with  its  glazed 
windows,  its  ornamented  ventilator  and  gilded  wea- 
ther vane,  —  who  cares  to  contemplate  it  ?  The 
wise  human  eye  loves  modesty  and  humility;  loves 
plain,  simple  structures;  loves  the  unpainted  barn 
that  took  no  thought  of  itself,  or  the  dwelling  that 
looks  inward  and  not  outward ;  is  offended  when  the 
farm-buildings  get  above  their  business  and  aspire 
to  be  something  on  their  own  account,  suggesting, 
not  cattle  and  crops  and  plain  living,  but  the  vani- 
ties of  the  town  and  the  pride  of  dress  and  equipage. 
Indeed,  the  picturesque  in  human  affairs  and 
occupations  is  always  born  of  love  and  humility,  as 
it  is  in  art  or  literature;  and  it  quickly  takes  to 
itself  wings  and  flies  away  at  the  advent  of  pride, 
or  any  selfish  or  unworthy  motive.  The  more  di- 
rectly the  farm  savors  of  the  farmer,  the  more  the 
fields  and  buildings  are  redolent  of  human  care  and 
toil,  without  any  thought  of  the  passer-by,  the  more 
we  delight  in  the  contemplation  of  it. 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE  225 

It  is  unquestionably  true  that  farm  life  and  farm 
scenes  in  this  country  are  less  picturesque  than  they 
were  fifty  or  one  hundred  years  ago.     This  is  owing 
partly  to  the  advent  of  machinery,   which  enables 
the  farmer  to  do  so  much  of  his  work  by  proxy, 
and  hence  removes  him  farther  from  the  soil,  and 
partly   to  the  growing  distaste  for  the  occupation 
among  our  people.      The  old  settlers  —  our  fathers 
and   grandfathers  —  loved    the    farm,    and    had    no 
thoughts   above   it;    but   the   later   generations   are 
looking  to  the  town  and  its  fashions,  and  only  wait- 
ing for  a  chance  to  flee  thither.      Then  pioneer  life 
is    always    more    or   less   picturesque;   there   is   no 
room  for  vain  and  foolish  thoughts;   it  is  a  hard 
battle,  and  the  people  have  no  time  to  think  about 
appearances.      When  my  grandfather  and  grandmo- 
ther came  into  the  country  where  they  reared  their 
family    and    passed    their    days,    they    cut    a    road 
through  the  woods  and  brought   all   their  worldly 
gear  on  a  sled  drawn  by  a  yoke  of  oxen.      Their 
neighbors  helped  them  build  a  house  of  logs,  with 
a  roof  of  black-ash  bark  and  a  floor  of  hewn  white- 
ash    plank.      A  great    stone  chimney  and  fireplace 
—  the  mortar  of  red  clay  —  gave  light  and  warmth, 
and  cooked  the  meat  and  baked   the   bread,   when 
there  was  any  to  cook  or  to  bake.      Here  they  lived 
and    reared    their    family,    and    found    life    sweet. 
Their  unworthy  descendant,  yielding  to  the  inher- 
ited love  of  the  soil,  flees  the  city  and  its  artificial 
ways,  and  gets  a  few  acres  in  the  country,  where 
he  proposes  to  engage  in  the  pursuit  supposed  to 


226  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

be  free  to  every  American  citizen,  —  the  pursuit  of 
happiness.  The  humble  old  farmhouse  is  discarded, 
and  a  smart,  modern  country-house  put  up.  Walks 
and  roads  are  made  and  graveled;  trees  and  hedges 
are  planted;  the  rustic  old  barn  is  rehabilitated; 
and,  after  it  is  all  fixed,  the  uneasy  proprietor 
stands  off  and  looks,  and  calculates  by  how  much 
he  has  missed  the  picturesque,  at  which  he  aimed. 
Our  new  houses  undoubtedly  have  greater  comforts 
and  conveniences  than  the  old;  and,  if  we  could 
keep  our  pride  and  vanity  in  abeyance  and  forget 
that  all  the  world  is  looking  on,  they  might  have 
beauty  also. 

The  man  that  forgets  himself,  he  is  the  man  we 
like ;  and  the  dwelling  that  forgets  itself,  in  its  pur- 
pose to  shelter  and  protect  its  inmates  and  make 
them  feel  at  home  in  it,  is  the  dwelling  that  fills  the 
eye.  When  you  see  one  of  the  great  cathedrals, 
you  know  that  it  was  not  pride  that  animated  these 
builders,  but  fear  and  worship;  but  when  you  see 
the  house  of  the  rich  farmer,  or  of  the  millionaire 
from  the  city,  you  see  the  pride  of  money  and  the 
insolence  of  social  power. 

Machinery,  I  say,  has  taken  away  some  of  the 
picturesque  features  of  farm  life.  How  much  so- 
ever we  may  admire  machinery  and  the  faculty  of 
mechanical  invention,  there  is  no  machine  like  a 
man;  and  the  work  done  directly  by  his  hands,  the 
things  made  or  fashioned  by  them,  have  a  virtue 
and  a  quality  that  cannot  be  imparted  by  machin- 
ery.    The  line  of  mowers  in  the  meadows,  with  the 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE  227 

straight  swaths  behind  them,  are  more  picturesque 
than  the  "Clipper"  or  "Buckeye"  mower,  with 
its  team  and  driver.  So  are  the  flails  of  the 
threshers,  chasing  each  other  through  the  air,  more 
pleasing  to  the  eye  and  the  ear  than  the  machine, 
with  its  uproar,  its  choking  clouds  of  dust,  and  its 
general  hurly-burly. 

Sometimes  the  threshing  was  done  in  the  open 
air,   upon  a  broad  rock,   or  a  smooth,   dry  plat  of 
greensward;  and  it  is  occasionally  done  there  yet, 
especially  the  threshing  of  the  buckwheat  crop,  by 
a  farmer  who  has  not  a  good  barn  floor,   or  who 
cannot  afford  to  hire  the  machine.      The  flail  makes 
a  louder  thud  in  the  fields  than  you  would  imagine; 
and  in  the  splendid  October  weather  it  is  a  pleasing 
spectacle  to  behold  the  gathering  of  the  ruddy  crop, 
and  three  or  four  lithe  figures  beating  out  the  grain 
with  their  flails  in  some  sheltered  nook,   or  some 
grassy   lane   lined   with    cedars.      When    there    are 
three  flails  beating  together  it  makes  lively  music; 
and  when  there  are  four  they  follow  each  other  so 
fast   that  it  is  a  continuous  roll  of   sound,   and  it 
requires  a  very  steady  stroke  not  to  hit  or  get  hit 
by  the  others.      There  is  just  room  and  time  to  get 
your  blow  in,  and  that  is  all.      When  one  flail  is 
upon  the  straw,  another  has  just  left  it,  another  is 
half  way  down,  and  the  fourth  is  high  and  straight 
in  the  air.      It   is   like   a   swiftly  revolving  wheel 
that  delivers  four  blows  at  each  revolution.     Thresh- 
ing,   like   mowing,    goes   much   easier   in    company 
than  when  alone;    yet   many  a  farmer   or   laborer 


228  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

spends  nearly  all  the  late  fall  and  winter  days  shut 
in  the  barn,  pounding  doggedly  upon  the  endless 
sheaves  of  oats  and  rye. 

When  the  farmers  made  "bees,"  as  they  did  a 
generation  or  two  ago  much  more  than  they  do 
now,  a  picturesque  element  was  added.  There  was 
the  stone  bee,  the  husking  bee,  the  "raising,"  the 
"moving,"  etc.  When  the  carpenters  had  got  the' 
timbers  of  the  house  or  barn  ready,  and  the  foun- 
dation was  prepared,  then  the  neighbors  for  miles 
about  were  invited  to  come  to  the  "raisin'."  The 
afternoon  was  the  time  chosen.  The  forenoon  was 
occupied  by  the  carpenter  and  farm  hands  in  put- 
ting the  sills  and  "sleepers"  in  place  ("sleepers," 
what  a  good  name  for  those  rude  hewn  timbers  that 
lie  under  the  floor  in  the  darkness  and  silence!). 
When  the  hands  arrived,  the  great  beams  and  posts 
and  joists  and  braces  were  carried  to  their  place  on 
the  platform,  and  the  first  "bent,"  as  it  was  called, 
was  put  together  and  pinned  by  oak  pins  that  the 
boys  brought.  Then  pike  poles  are  distributed, 
the  men,  fifteen  or  twenty  of  them,  arranged  in  a 
line  abreast  of  the  bent;  the  boss  carpenter  steadies 
and  guides  the  corner  post  and  gives  the  word  of 
command,  — "Take  holt,  boys!"  "Now,  set  her 
up !  "  "  Up  with  her !  "  "  Up  she  goes !  "  When 
it  gets  shoulder  high  it  becomes  heavy,  and  there 
is  a  pause.  The  pikes  are  brought  into  requisition; 
every  man  gets  a  good  hold  and  braces  himself,  and 
waits  for  the  words.  "  All  together  now ;  "  shouts 
the  captain,  "  Heave  her  up !  "     "  He-o-he !  "  (heave- 


PHASES   OF  FARM  LIFE  229 

all, — heave),  "he-o-he,"  at  the  top  of  his  voice, 
every  man  doing  his  best.  Slowly  the  great  tim- 
bers go  np;  louder  grows  the  word  of  command, 
till  the  bent  is  up.  Then  it  is  plumbed  and  stay- 
lathed,  and  another  is  put  together  and  raised  in 
the  same  way,  till  they  are  all  up.  Then  comes 
the  putting  on  the  great  plates,  —  timbers  that  run 
lengthwise  of  the  building  and  match  the  sills 
below.  Then,  if  there  is  time,  the  putting  up  of 
the  rafters.  In  every  neighborhood  there  was  al- 
ways some  man  who  was  especially  useful  at  "rais- 
in's." He  was  bold  and  strong  and  quick.  He 
helped  guide  and  superintend  the  work.  He  was 
the  first  one  up  on  the  bent,  catching  a  pin  or  a 
brace  and  putting  it  in  place.  He  walked  the  lofty 
and  perilous  plate,  with  the  great  beetle  in  hand; 
put  the  pins  in  the  holes,  and,  swinging  the  heavy 
instrument  through  the  air,  drove  the  pins  home. 
He  was  as  much  at  home  up  there  as  a  squirrel. 

Now  that  balloon  frames  are  mainly  used  for 
houses,  and  lighter  sawed  timbers  for  barns,  the 
old-fashioned  raising  is  rarely  witnessed. 

Then  the  moving  was  an  event,  too.  A  farmer 
had  a  barn  to  move,  or  wanted  to  build  a  new 
house  on  the  site  of  the  old  one,  and  the  latter  must 
be  drawn  to  one  side.  Now  this  work  is  done  with 
pulleys  and  rollers  by  a  few  men  and  a  horse;  then 
the  building  was  drawn  by  sheer  bovine  strength. 
Every  man  that  had  a  yoke  of  cattle  in  the  country 
round  about  was  invited  to  assist!  The  barn  or 
house  was  pried  up  and  great  runners,  cut  in  the 


230  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

woods,  placed  under  it,  and  under  the  runners  were 
placed  skids.  To  these  runners  it  was  securely 
chained  and  pinned ;  then  the  cattle  —  stags,  steers, 
and  oxen,  in  two  long  lines,  one  at  each  runner  — 
were  hitched  fast,  and,  while  men  and  boys  aided 
with  great  levers,  the  word  to  go  was  given.  Slowly 
the  two  lines  of  bulky  cattle  straightened  and  set- 
tled into  their  bows ;  the  big  chains  that  wrapped 
the  runners  tightened,  a  dozen  or  more  "gads" 
were  flourished,  a  dozen  or  more  lusty  throats  urged 
their  teams  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  when  there 
was  a  creak  or  a  groan  as  the  building  stirred. 
Then  the  drivers  redoubled  their  efforts;  there  was 
a  perfect  Babel  of  discordant  sounds ;  the  oxen  bent 
to  the  work,  their  eyes  bulged,  their  nostrils  dis- 
tended; the  lookers-on  cheered,  and  away  went  the 
old  house  or  barn  as  nimbly  as  a  boy  on  a  hand- 
sled.  ^Not  always,  however;  sometimes  the  chains 
would  break,  or  one  runner  strike  a  rock,  or  bury 
itself  in  the  earth.  There  were  generally  enough 
mishaps  or  delays  to  make  it  interesting. 

In  the  section  of  the  State  of  which  I  write,  flax 
used  to  be  grown,  and  cloth  for  shirts  and  trowsers, 
and  towels  and  sheets,  etc.,  woven  from  it.  It  was 
no  laughing  matter  for  the  farm-boy  to  break  in  his 
shirt  or  trowsers  those  days.  The  hair  shirts  in 
which  the  old  monks  used  to  mortify  the  flesh  could 
not  have  been  much  before  them  in  this  mortifying 
particular.  But  after  the  bits  of  shives  and  sticks 
were  subdued,  and  the  knots  humbled  by  use  and 
the  washboard,   they  were  good  garments.      If  you 


PHASES    OF   FARM   LIFE  231 

lost  your  hold  in  a  tree  and  your  shirt  caught  on 
a  knot  or  limb,  it  would  save  you. 

But  when  has  any  one  seen  a  crackle,  or  a  swing- 
ling-knife,  or  a  hetchel,  or  a  distaff,  and  where  can 
one  get  some  tow  for  strings  or  for  gun- wadding,  or 
some  swingling-tow  for  a  bonfire  ?     The  quill-wheel, 
and  the  spinning-wheel,  and  the  loom  are  heard  no 
more   among   us.      The    last   I   knew   of    a   certain 
hetchel,  it  was  nailed  up  behind  the  old  sheep  that 
did  the   churning;  and  when  he   was   disposed   to 
shirk  or  hang  back  and  stop  the  machine,   it  was 
always  ready  to  spur  him  up  in  no  uncertain  man- 
ner.     The  old  loom  became  a  hen-roost  in  an  out- 
building ;  and  the  crackle  upon  which  the  flax  was 
broken,  —  where,  oh,  where  is  it  ? 

When  the  produce  of  the  farm  was  taken  a  long 
distance  to  market,  —that  was  an  event,  too;  the 
carrying  away  of  the  butter  in  the  fall,  for  instance, 
to  the  river,    a  journey   that   occupied   both  ways 
four  days.      Then  the  family  marketing  was  done 
in  a  few  groceries.     Some  cloth,  new  caps  and  boots 
for  the  boys,  and  a  dress,  or  a  shawl,  or  a  cloak  for 
the  girls  were  brought  back,  besides  news  and  ad- 
venture, and  strange  tidings  of  the  distant  world. 
The  farmer  was  days  in  getting  ready  to  start;  food 
was  prepared  and  put  in  a  box  to  stand  him  on  the 
journey,    so   as   to  lessen   the   hotel  expenses,   and 
oats  put  up  for  the  horses.      The  butter  was  loaded 
up  overnight,  and  in  the  cold  November   morning, 
long  before  it  was  light,  he  was  up  and  off.      I  seem 
to  hear  the  wagon  yet,  its  slow  rattle  over  the  frozen 


232  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

ground  diminishing  in  the  distance.  On  the  fourth 
day  toward  night  all  grew  expectant  of  his  return, 
but  it  was  usually  dark  before  his  wagon  was  heard 
coming  down  the  hill,  or  his  voice  from  before  the 
door  summoning  a  light.  When  the  boys  got  big 
enough,  one  after  the  other  accompanied  him  each 
year,  until  all  had  made  the  famous  journey  and 
seen  the  great  river  and  the  steamboats,  and  the 
thousand  and  one  marvels  of  the  far-away  town. 
When  it  came  my  turn  to  go,  I  was  in  a  great  state 
of  excitement  for  a  week  beforehand,  for  fear  my 
clothes  would  not  be  ready,  or  else  that  it  would 
be  too  cold,  or  else  that  the  world  would  come  to 
an  end  before  the  time  fixed  for  starting.  The  day 
previous  I  roamed  the  woods  in  quest  of  game  to 
supply  my  bill  of  fare  on  the  way,  and  was  lucky 
enough  to  shoot  a  partridge  and  an  owl,  though  the 
latter  I  did  not  take.  Perched  high  on  a  "spring- 
board" I  made  the  journey,  and  saw  more  sights 
and  wonders  than  I  have  ever  seen  on  a  journey 
since,  or  ever  expect  to  again. 

But  now  all  this  is  changed.  The  railroad  has 
found  its  way  through  or  near  every  settlement,  and 
marvels  and  wonders  are  cheap.  Still,  the  essential 
charm  of  the  farm  remains  and  always  will  remain: 
the  care  of  crops,  and  of  cattle,  and  of  orchards, 
bees,  and  fowls ;  the  clearing  and  improving  of  the 
ground;  the  building  of  barns  and  houses;  the  di- 
rect contact  with  the  soil  and  with  the  elements; 
the  watching  of  the  clouds  and  of  the  weather;  the 
privacies  with  nature,  with  bird,  beast,  and  plant*, 


PHASES   OF  FARM  LIFE  233 

and  the  close  acquaintance  with  the  heart  and  vir- 
tue of  the  world.  The  farmer  should  be  the  true 
naturalist;  the  book  in  which  it  is  all  written  is 
open  before  him  night  and  day,  and  how  sweet  and 
wholesome  all  his  knowledge  is ! 

The  predominant  feature  of  farm  life  in  New 
York,  as  in  other  States,  is  always  given  by  some 
local  industry  of  one  kind  or  another.  In  many 
of  the  high  cold  counties  in  the  eastern  centre  of 
the  State,  this  ruling  industry  is  hop  -  growing ; 
in  the  western,  it  is  grain  and  fruit  growing;  in 
sections  along  the  Hudson,  it  is  small-fruit  grow- 
ing, as  berries,  currants,  grapes;  in  other  counties, 
it  is  milk  and  butter;  in  others,  quarrying  flag- 
ging-stone. I  recently  visited  a  section  of  Ulster 
County,  where  everybody  seemed  getting  out  hoop- 
poles  and  making  hoops.  The  only  talk  was  of 
hoops,  hoops!  Every  team  that  went  by  had  a 
load  or  was  going  for  a  load  of  hoops.  The  princi- 
pal fuel  was  hoop-shavings  or  discarded  hoop-poles. 
No  man  had  any  money  until  he  sold  his  hoops. 
When  a  farmer  went  to  town  to  get  some  grain,  or 
a  pair  of  boots,  or  a  dress  for  his  wife,  he  took 
a  load  of  hoops.  People  stole  hoops  and  poached 
for  hoops,  and  bought,  and  sold,  and  speculated  in 
hoops.  If  there  was  a  corner  it  was  in  hoops; 
big  hoops,  little  hoops,  hoops  for  kegs,  and  firkins, 
and  barrels,  and  hogsheads,  and  pipes;  hickory 
hoops,  birch  hoops,  ash  hoops,  chestnut  hoops,  hoops 
enough  to  go  around  the  world.  Another  place  it 
was  shingle,  shingle;  everybody  was  shaving  hem- 
lock shingle. 


234  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

In  most  of  the  eastern  counties  of  the  State,  the 
interest  and  profit  of  the  farm  revolve  about  the 
cow.  The  dairy  is  the  one  great  matter,  —  for 
milk,  when  milk  can  be  shipped  to  the  New  York 
market,  and  for  butter  when  it  cannot.  Great  barns 
and  stables  and  milking-sheds,  and  immense  mead- 
ows and  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills,  are  the  promi- 
nent agricultural  features  of  these  sections  of  the 
country.  Good  grass  and  good  water  are  the  two 
indispensables  to  successful  dairying.  And  the  two 
generally  go  together.  Where  there  are  plenty  of 
copious  cold  springs,  there  is  no  dearth  of  grass. 
AVhen  the  cattle  are  compelled  to  browse  upon 
weeds  and  various  wild  growths,  the  milk  and  but- 
ter will  betray  it  in  the  flavor.  Tender,  juicy 
grass,  the  ruddy  blossoming  clover,  or  the  fragrant, 
well-cured  hay,  make  the  delicious  milk  and  the 
sweet  butter.  Then  there  is  a  charm  about  a  natu- 
ral pastoral  country  that  belongs  to  no  other.  Go 
through  Orange  County  in  May  and  see  the  vivid 
emerald  of  the  smooth  fields  and  hills.  It  is  a  new 
experience  of  the  beauty  and  effectiveness  of  simple 
grass.  And  this  grass  has  rare  virtues,  too,  and 
imparts  a  flavor  to  the  milk  and  butter  that  has 
made  them  famous. 

Along  all  the  sources  of  the  Delaware  the  land 
flows  with  milk,  if  not  with  honey.  The  grass  is 
excellent,  except  in  times  of  protracted  drought, 
and  then  the  browsings  in  the  beech  and  birch 
woods  are  good  substitute.  Butter  is  the  staple 
product.      Every    housewife    is    or   wants    to   be  a 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE  235 

famous  butter-maker,   and   Delaware  County  butter 
rivals  Orange  in  market.      It  is  a  high,  cool  graz- 
ing country.      The  farms  lie  tilted  up  against  the 
sides   of    the   mountain   or   lapping  over  the  hills, 
striped  or  checked  with  stone  wall,  and  presenting 
to  the  eye  long   stretches  of  pasture   and   meadow 
land,  alternating  with  plowed  fields  and  patches  of 
waving  grain.      Few  of  their   features   are   pictur- 
esque;   they    are    bare,    broad,    and    simple.      The 
farmhouse   gets   itself  a   coat   of  white  paint,    and 
(rreen   blinds   to   the   windows,    and   the   barn   and 
wagon-house  a  coat  of  red  paint  with  white  trim- 
mings, as  soon  as  possible.      A  penstock  flows  by 
the  doorway,   rows  of  tin  pans  sun  themselves  in 
the    yard,    and    the   great   wheel   of    the    churning 
machine  flanks  the  milk-house,  or  rattles  behind  it. 
The  winters  are  severe,  the  snow  deep.      The  prin- 
cipal fuel  is  still  wood,  —  beech,  birch,  and  maple. 
It  is  hauled  off  the  mountain  in  great  logs  when 
the  first  November  or  December  snows  come,  and 
cut  up  and  piled  in  the  wood-houses  and  under  a 
shed.      Here  the  axe  still  rules  the  winter,  and  it 
may  be  heard  all  day  and  every  day  upon  the  wood- 
pile, or  echoing  through  the  frost-bound  wood,  the 
coat   of   the   chopper   hanging   to   a  limb,    and  his 
white  chips  strewing  the  snow. 

Many  cattle  need  much  hay ;  hence  in  dairy  sec- 
tions haying  is  the  period  of  "storm  and  stress"  in 
the  farmer's  year.  To  get  the  hay  in,  in  good  con- 
dition, and  before  the  grass  gets  too  ripe,  is  a  great 
matter.      All  the  energies  and  resources  of  the  farm 


236  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

are  bent  to  this  purpose.  It  is  a  thirty  or  forty 
day  war,  in  which  the  farmer  and  his  "  hands  "  are 
pitted  against  the  heat  and  the  rain  and  the  legions 
of  timothy  and  clover.  Everything  about  it  has 
the  urge,  the  hurry,  the  excitement  of  a  battle. 
Outside  help  is  procured;  men  flock  in  from  adjoin- 
ing counties,  where  the  ruling  industry  is  something 
else  and  is  less  imperative;  coopers,  blacksmiths, 
and  laborers  of  various  kinds  drop  their  tools,  and 
take  down  their  scythes  and  go  in  quest  of  a  job  in 
haying.  Every  man  is  expected  to  pitch  his  en- 
deavors in  a  little  higher  key  than  at  any  other 
kind  of  work.  The  wages  are  extra,  and  the  work 
must  correspond.  The  men  are  in  the  meadow  by 
half-past  four  or  five  in  the  morning,  and  mow  an 
hour  or  two  before  breakfast.  A  good  mower  is 
proud  of  his  skill.  He  does  not  "lop  in,"  and  his 
"pointing  out"  is  perfect,  and  you  can  hardly  see 
the  ribs  of  his  swath.  He  stands  up  to  his  grass 
and  strikes  level  and  sure.  He  will  turn  a  double 
down  through  the  stoutest  grass,  and  when  the  hay 
is  raked  away  you  will  not  find  a  spear  left  stand- 
ing. The  Americans  are  —  or  were  —  the  best 
mowers.  A  foreigner  could  never  quite  give  the 
masterly  touch.  The  hayfield  has  its  code.  One 
man  must  not  take  another's  swath  unless  he  ex- 
pects to  be  crowded.  Each  expects  to  take  his  turn 
leading  the  band.  The  scythe  may  be  so  whet  as 
to  ring  out  a  saucy  challenge  to  the  rest.  It  is  not 
good  manners  to  mow  up  too  close  to  your  neigh- 
bor, unless  you  are  trying  to  keep  out  of  the  way 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE  237 

of  the  man  behind  you.  Many  a  race  has  been 
brought  on  by  some  one  being  a  little  indiscreet  in 
this  respect.  Two  men  may  mow  all  day  together 
under  the  impression  that  each  is  trying  to  put 
the  other  through.  The  one  that  leads  strikes  out 
briskly,  and  the  other,  not  to  be  outdone,  follows 
close.  Thus  the  blood  of  each  is  soon  up ;  a  little 
heat  begets  more  heat,  and  it  is  fairly  a  race  before 
long.  It  is  a  great  ignominy  to  be  mowed  out  of 
your  swath.  Hay-gathering  is  clean,  manly  work 
all  through.  Young  fellows  work  in  haying  who 
do  not  do  another  stroke  on  the  farm  the  whole 
year.  It  is  a  gymnasium  in  the  meadows  and 
under  the  summer  sky.  How  full  of  pictures,  too! 
—  the  smooth  slopes  dotted  with  cocks  with  length- 
ening shadows;  the  great,  broad- backed,  soft-cheeked 
loads,  moving  along  the  lanes  and  brushing  under 
the  trees;  the  unfinished  stack  with  forkfuls  of  hay 
being  handed  up  its  sides  to  the  builder,  and  when 
finished  the  shape  of  a  great  pear,  with  a  pole  in 
the  top  for  the  stem.  Maybe  in  the  fall  and  win- 
ter the  calves  and  yearlings  will  hover  around  it 
and  gnaw  its  base  until  it  overhangs  them  and  shel- 
ters them  from  the  storm.  Or  the  farmer  will 
"  fodder "  his  cows  there,  —  one  of  the  most  pic- 
turesque scenes  to  be  witnessed  on  the  farm,  — 
twenty  or  thirty  or  forty  milchers  filing  along 
toward  the  stack  in  the  field,  or  clustered  about  it, 
waiting  the  promised  bite.  In  great,  green  flakes 
the  hay  is  rolled  ofi",  and  distributed  about  in  small 
heaps  upon  the  unspotted  snow.      After  the  cattle 


238  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

have  eaten,  the  hirds  —  snow  huntings  and  red- 
polls—  come  and  pick  up  the  crumbs,  the  seeds  of 
the  grasses  and  weeds.  At  night  the  fox  and  the 
owl  come  for  mice. 

What  a  beautiful  path  the  cows  make  through 
the  snow  to  the  stack  or  to  the  spring  under  the 
hill !  —  always  more  or  less  wayward,  but  broad 
and  firm,  and  carved  and  indented  by  a  multitude 
of  rounded  hoofs. 

In  fact,  the  cow  is  the  true  pathfinder  and  path- 
maker.  She  has  the  leisurely,  deliberate  movement 
that  insures  an  easy  and  a  safe  way.  Follow  her 
trail  through  the  woods,  and  you  have  the  best,  if 
not  the  shortest,  course.  How  she  beats  down  the 
brush  and  briers  and  wears  away  even  the  roots  of 
the  trees!  A  herd  of  cows  left  to  themselves  fall 
naturally  into  single  file,  and  a  hundred  or  more 
hoofs  are  not  long  in  smoothing  and  compacting 
almost  any  surface. 

Indeed,  all  the  ways  and  doings  of  cattle  are 
pleasant  to  look  upon,  whether  grazing  in  the  pas- 
ture, or  browsing  in  the  woods,  or  ruminating  under 
the  trees,  or  feeding  in  the  stall,  or  reposing  upon 
the  knolls.  There  is  virtue  in  the  cow;  she  is  full 
of  goodness;  a  wholesome  odor  exhales  from  her; 
the  whole  landscape  looks  out  of  her  soft  eyes;  the 
quality  and  the  aroma  of  miles  of  meadow  and  pas- 
ture lands  are  in  her  presence  and  products.  I  had 
rather  have  the  care  of  cattle  than  be  the  keeper 
of  the  great  seal  of  the  nation.  Where  the  cow  is, 
there  is  Arcadia;  so  far  as  her  influence  prevails. 


PHASES    OF   FARM    LIFE  239 

there  is  contentment,  humility,  and  sweet,  homely 
life. 

Blessed  is  he  whose  youth  was  passed  upon  the 
farm,  and  if  it  was  a  dairy  farm  his  memories  will 
be  all  the  more  fragrant.  The  driving  of  the  cows 
to  and  from  the  pasture,  every  day  and  every  season 
for  years,  —  how  much  of  summer  and  of  nature 
he  got  into  him  on  these  journeys!  What  rambles 
and  excursions  did  this  errand  furnish  the  excuse 
for!  The  birds  and  birds'  nests,  the  berries,  the 
squirrels,  the  woodchucks,  the  beech  woods  with 
their  treasures  into  which  the  cows  loved  so  to 
wander  and  to  browse,  the  fragrant  wintergreens 
and  a  hundred  nameless  adventures,  all  strung  upon 
that  brief  journey  of  half  a  mile  to  and  from  the 
remote  pastures.  Sometimes  one  cow  or  two  will 
be  missing  when  the  herd  is  brought  home  at 
night;  then  to  hunt  them  up  is  another  adventure. 
My  grandfather  went  out  one  night  to  look  up  an 
absentee  from  the  yard,  when  he  heard  something 
in  the  brush,  and  out  stepped  a  bear  into  the  path 
before  him. 

Every  Sunday  morning  the  cows  were  salted. 
The  farm-boy  would  take  a  pail  with  three  or  four 
quarts  of  coarse  salt,  and,  followed  by  the  eager 
herd,  go  to  the  field  and  deposit  the  salt  in  hand- 
fuls  upon  smooth  stones  and  rocks  and  upon  clean 
places  on  the  turf.  If  you  want  to  know  how  good 
salt  is,  see  a  cow  eat  it.  She  gives  the  true  saline 
smack.  How  she  dwells  upon  it,  and  gnaws  the 
sward  and  licks  the  stones  where  it  has  been  depos- 


240  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

ited!  The  cow  is  the  most  delightful  feeder  among 
animals.  It  makes  one's  mouth  water  to  see  her 
eat  pumpkins,  and  to  see  her  at  a  pile  of  apples 
is  distracting.  How  she  sweeps  off  the  delectable 
grass !  The  sound  of  her  grazing  is  appetizing ;  the 
grass  betrays  all  its  sweetness  and  succulency  in  part- 
ing under  her  sickle. 

The  region  of  which  I  write  abounds  in  sheep 
also.  Sheep  love  high,  cool,  breezy  lands.  Their 
range  is  generally  much  above  that  of  cattle.  Their 
sharp  noses  will  find  picking  where  a  cow  would 
fare  poorly  indeed.  Hence  most  farmers  utilize 
their  high,  wild,  and  mountain  lands  by  keeping 
a  small  flock  of  sheep.  But  they  are  the  outlaws 
of  ihe  farm  and  are  seldom  within  bounds.  They 
make  many  lively  expeditions  for  the  farm-boy,  — 
driving  them  out  of  mischief,  hunting  them  up  in 
the  mountains,  or  salting  them  on  the  breezy  hills. 
Then  there  is  the  annual  sheep- washing,  when  on 
a  warm  day  in  May  or  early  June  the  whole  herd 
is  driven  a  mile  or  more  to  a  suitable  pool  in  the 
creek,  and  one  by  one  doused  and  washed  and  rinsed 
in  the  water.  We  used  to  wash  below  an  old 
grist-mill,  and  it  was  a  pleasing  spectacle,  —  the 
mill,  the  dam,  the  overhanging  rocks  and  trees,  the 
round,  deep  pool,  and  the  huddled  and  frightened 
sheep. 

One  of  the  features  of  farm  life  peculiar  to  this 
country,  and  one  of  the  most  picturesque  of  them 
all,  is  sugar-making  in  the  maple  woods  in  spring. 
This  is  the  first  work  of   the   season,   and  to   the 


PHASES    OF   FARM    LIFE  241 

boys  is  more  play  than  work.  In  the  Old  World, 
and  in  more  simple  and  imaginative  times,  how- 
such  an  occupation  as  this  would  have  got  into 
literature,  and  how  many  legends  and  associations 
would  have  clustered  around  it !  It  is  w^oodsy,  and 
savors  of  the  trees;  it  is  an  encampment  among 
the  maples.  Before  the  bud  swells,  before  the 
grass  springs,  before  the  plow  is  started,  comes  the 
sugar  harvest.  It  is  the  sequel  of  the  bitter  frost ; 
a  sap-run  is  the  sweet  good-by  of  winter.  It  de- 
notes a  certain  equipoise  of  the  season;  the  heat  of 
the  day  fully  balances  the  frost  of  the  night.  In 
New  York  and  New  England  the  time  of  the  sap 
hovers  about  the  vernal  equinox,  beginning  a  week 
or  ten  days  before,  and  continuing  a  week  or  ten 
days  after.  As  the  days  and  nights  get  equal,  the 
heat  and  cold  get  equal,  and  the  sap  mounts.  A 
day  that  brings  the  bees  out  of  the  hive  will  bring 
the  sap  out  of  the  maple- tree.  It  is  the  fruit  of 
the  equal  marriage  of  the  sun  and  frost.  When  the 
frost  is  all  out  of  the  ground,  and  all  the  snow 
gone  from  its  surface,  the  flow  stops.  The  ther- 
mometer must  not  rise  above  38°  or  40°  by  day, 
or  sink  below  24°  or  25°  at  night,  witli  wind  in 
the  north w^est;  a  relaxing  south  wind,  and  the  run 
is  over  for  the  present.  Sugar  weather  is  crisp 
weather.  How  the  tin  buckets  glisten  in  the  gray 
woods ;  how^  the  robins  laugh ;  how  the  nuthatches 
call;  how  lightly  the  thin  blue  smoke  rises  among 
the  trees !  The  squirrels  are  out  of  their  dens ;  the 
migrating  water-fowls  are  streaming  northward;  the 


242  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

sheep  and  cattle  look  wistfully  toAvard  the  bare 
fields;  the  tide  of  the  season,  in  fact,  is  just  begin- 
ning to  rise. 

Sap-letting  does  not  seem  to  be  an  exhaustive 
process  to  the  trees,  as  the  trees  of  a  sugar-bush 
appear  to  be  as  thrifty  and  as  long-lived  as  other 
trees.  They  come  to  have  a  maternal,  large- waisted 
look,  from  the  wounds  of  the  axe  or  the  auger,  and 
that  is  about  all. 

In  my  sugar-making  days,  the  sap  was  carried  to 
the  boiling-place  in  pails  by  the  aid  of  a  neck-yoke 
and  stored  in  hogsheads,  and  boiled  or  evaporated 
in  immense  kettles  or  caldrons  set  in  huge  stone 
arches;  now,  the  hogshead  goes  to  the  trees  hauled 
upon  a  sled  by  a  team,  and  the  sap  is  evaporated  in 
broad,  shallow,  sheet- iron  pans,  —  a  great  saving  of 
fuel  and  of  labor. 

Many  a  farmer  sits  up  all  night  boiling  his  sap, 
when  the  run  has  been  an  extra  good  one,  and  a 
lonely  vigil  he  has  of  it  amid  the  silent  trees  and 
beside  his  wild  hearth.  If  he  has  a  sap-house,  as 
is  now  so  common,  he  may  make  himself  fairly  com- 
fortable ;  and  if  a  companion,  he  may  have  a  good 
time  or  a  glorious  wake. 

Maple- sugar  in  its  perfection  is  rarely  seen,  per- 
haps never  seen,  in  the  market.  When  made  in 
large  quantities  and  indifferently,  it  is  dark  and 
coarse;  but  when  made  in  small  quantities  —  that 
is,  quickly  from  the  first  run  of  sap  and  properly 
treated  —  it  has  a  wild  delicacy  of  flavor  that  no 
other  sweet  can  match.      What  you  smell  in  freshly 


PHASES    OF   FARM   LIFE  243 

cut  maple-wood,  or  taste  in  the  blossom  of  the  tree, 
is  in  it.  It  is  then,  indeed,  the  distilled  essence  of 
the  tree.  Made  into  syrup,  it  is  white  and  clear 
as  clover- honey ;  and  crystallized  into  sugar,  it  is 
pure  as  the  wax.  The  way  to  attain  this  result  is 
to  evaporate  the  sap  under  cover  in  an  enameled 
kettle;  when  reduced  about  twelve  times,  allow  it 
to  settle  half  a  day  or  more;  then  clarify  with  milk 
or  the  white  of  an  egg.  The  product  is  virgin 
syrup,  or  sugar  worthy  the  table  of  the  gods. 

Perhaps  the  most  heavy  and  laborious  work  of 
the  farm  in  the  section  of  the  State  of  which  I 
write  is  fence- building.  But  it  is  not  unproductive 
labor,  as  in  the  South  or  West,  for  the  fence  is  of 
stone,  and  the  capacity  of  the  soil  for  grass  or  grain 
is,  of  course,  increased  by  its  construction.  It  is 
killing  two  birds  with  one  stone:  a  fence  is  had, 
the  best  in  the  world,  while  the  available  area  of 
the  field  is  enlarged.  In  fact,  if  there  are  ever 
sermons  in  stones,  it  is  when  they  are  built  into  a 
stone  wall,  —  turning  your  hindrances  into  helps, 
shielding  your  crops  behind  the  obstacles  to  your 
husbandry,  making  the  enemies  of  the  plow  stand 
guard  over  its  products.  This  is  the  kind  of  farm- 
ing worth  imitating.  A  stone  wall  with  a  good 
rock  bottom  will  stand  as  long  as  a  man  lasts.  Its 
only  enemy  is  the  frost,  and  it  works  so  gently 
that  it  is  not  till  after  many  years  that  its  effect  is 
perceptible.  An  old  farmer  will  walk  with  you 
through  his  fields  and  say,  "This  wall  I  built  at 
such  and  such  a  time,  or  the  first  year  I  came  on 


244  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

the  farm,  or  when  I  owned  such  and  such  a  span  of 
horses,"  indicating  a  period  thirty,  forty,  or  fifty 
years  back.  "  This  other,  we  built  the  summer  so 
and  so  worked  for  me,"  and  he  relates  some  inci- 
dent, or  mishap,  or  comical  adventures  that  the 
memory  calls  up.  Every  line  of  fence  has  a  his- 
tory; the  mark  of  his  plow  or  his  crowbar  is  upon 
the  stones ;  the  sweat  of  his  early  manhood  put  them 
in  place;  in  fact,  the  long  black  line  covered  with 
lichens  and  in  places  tottering  to  the  fall  revives 
long-gone  scenes  and  events  in  the  life  of  the  farm. 

The  time  for  fence-building  is  usually  between 
seed-time  and  harvest.  May  and  June;  or  in  the 
fall  after  the  crops  are  gathered.  The  work  has  its 
picturesque  features,  —  the  prying  of  rocks ;  supple 
forms  climbing  or  swinging  from  the  end  of  the 
great  levers,  or  the  blasting  of  the  rocks  with  pow- 
der; the  hauling  of  them  into  position  with  oxen 
or  horses,  or  with  both;  the  picking  of  the  stone 
from  the  greensward;  the  bending,  athletic  form  of 
the  wall-layers;  the  snug  new  fence  creeping  slowly 
up  the  hill  or  across  the  field,  absorbing  the  wind- 
row of  loose  stones;  and,  when  the  work  is  done, 
much  ground  reclaimed  to  the  plow  and  the  grass, 
and  a  strong  barrier  erected. 

It  is  a  common  complaint  that  the  farm  and 
farm  life  are  not  appreciated  by  our  people.  We 
long  for  the  more  elegant  pursuits,  or  the  ways  and 
fashions  of  the  town.  But  the  farmer  has  the  most 
sane  and  natural  occupation,  and  ought  to  find  life 
sweeter,   if   less   highly  seasoned,   than   any   other. 


PHASES    OF   FARM    LIFE  245 

He  alone,  strictly  speaking,  has  a  lionie.  How  can 
a  man  take  root  and  thrive  without  land?  He 
writes  his  history  upon  his  field.  How  many  ties, 
how  many  resources,  he  has,  —  his  friendships  with 
his  cattle,  his  team,  his  dog,  his  trees,  the  satisfac- 
tion in  his  growing  crops,  in  his  improved  fields; 
his  intimacy  with  nature,  with  bird  and  beast,  and 
with  the  quickening  elemental  forces;  his  coopera- 
tions with  the  cloud,  the  sun,  the  seasons,  heat, 
wind,  rain,  frost!  Nothing  will  take  the  various 
social  distempers  which  the  city  and  artificial  life 
breed  out  of  a  man  like  farming,  like  direct  and  lov- 
ing contact  with  the  soil.  It  draws  out  the  poison. 
It  humbles  him,  teaches  him  patience  and  reverence, 
and  restores  the  proper  tone  to  his  system. 

Cling  to  the  farm,  make  much  of  it,  put  yourself 
into  it,  bestow  your  heart  and  your  brain  upon  it, 
so  that  it  shall  savor  of  you  and  radiate  your  virtue 
after  your  day's  work  is  done! 

"  Be  thou  diligent  to  know  the  state  of  thy  flocks, 
and  look  well  to  thy  herds. 

"For  riches  are  not  forever;  and  doth  the  crown 
endure  to  every  generation? 

"The  hay  appeareth,  and  the  tender  grass  show- 
eth  itself,  and  herbs  of  the  mountains  are  gathered. 

"The  lambs  are  for  thy  clothing,  and  the  goats 
are  the  price  of  the  field. 

"And  thou  shalt  have  goat's  milk  enough  for 
thy  food,  for  the  food  of  thy  household,  and  for 
the  maintenance  for  thy  maidens."  ^- 


o 


XIII 

ROOF-TREE 

NE  of  the  greatest  pleasures  of  life  is  to  build 
a  bouse  for  one's  self.      There  is  a  peculiar 
satisfaction  even  in  planting  a  tree  from  which  you 
hope  to  eat  the  fruit,  or  in  the  shade  of  which  you 
hope  to  repose.      But  how  much  greater  the  pleas- 
ure in  planting  the  roof-tree,  the  tree  that  bears  the 
golden  apples  of  home  and  hospitality,  and  under 
the  protection  of  which  you  hope  to  pass  the  re- 
mainder of  your  days!     My  grandmother  said  the 
happiest  day  of  her  life  was  when  she  found  herself 
mistress  of  a  little  log-house  in  the  woods.      Grand- 
father and  she  had  built  it  mainly  with  their  own 
hands,  and  doubtless  with  as  much  eagerness  and 
solicitude  as  the  birds  build  their  nests.      It  was 
made  of  birch  and  maple  logs,  the  floor  was  of  hewn 
logs,   and  its  roof  of  black-ash  bark.      But  it  was 
ho'me  and  fireside,   a  few  square  feet  of  the  great, 
wild,   inclement,   inhospitable  out-of-doors  subdued 
and  set  about  by  four  walls  and  made  warm  and 
redolent  of  human  hearts.      I  notice  how  eager  all 
men  are  in  building  their  houses,  how  they  linger 
about    them,    or   even    about  their  proposed    sites. 
When  the  cellar  is  being  dug,  they  want  to  take  a 


248  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

hand  in  it;  the  earth  evidently  looks  a  little  differ- 
ent, a  little  more  friendly  and  congenial,  than  other 
earth.  When  the  foundation  walls  are  up  and  the 
first  floor  is  rudely  sketched  by  rough  timbers,  I  see 
them  walking  pensively  from  one  imaginary  room 
to  another,  or  sitting  long  and  long,  wrapped  in 
sweet  reverie,  upon  the  naked  joist.  It  is  a  fa- 
vorite pastime  to  go  there  of  a  Sunday  afternoon 
and  linger  fondly  about:  they  take  their  friends  or 
their  neighbors  and  climb  the  skeleton  stairs  and 
look  out  of  the  vacant  windows,  and  pass  in  and 
out  of  the  just  sketched  doorways.  How  long  the 
house  is  a-finishing !  The  heart  moves  in  long  before 
the  workmen  move  out.  Will  the  mason  and  the 
painter  and  the  plumber  never  be  through  ? 

When  a  new  house  is  going  up  in  my  vicinity,  I 
find  myself  walking  thitherward  nearly  every  day 
to  see  how  the  work  progresses.  What  pleasure  to 
see  the  structure  come  into  shape,  and  the  archi- 
tect's paper  plans  take  form  and  substance  in  wood 
and  stone !  I  like  to  see  every  piece  fitted,  every 
nail  driven.  I  stand  about  till  I  am  in  the  way 
of  the  carpenters  or  masons.  Another  new  roof  to 
shelter  somebody  from  the  storms,  another  four  walls 
to  keep  the  great  cosmic  out-of-doors  at  bay ! 

Though  there  is  pleasure  in  building  our  house, 
or  in  seeing  our  neighbor  build,  yet  the  old  houses 
look  the  best.  Disguise  it  as  one  will,  the  new 
house  is  more  or  less  a  wound  upon  nature,  and 
time  must  elapse  for  the  wound  to  heal.  Then, 
unless  one  builds  with  modesty  and  simplicity,  and 


ROOF-TREE  249 

with  a  due  regard  to  the  fitness  of  things,  his  house 
will  always  be  a  wound,  an  object  of  offense  upon 
the  fair  face  of  the  landscape.  Indeed,  to  build  a 
house  that  shall  not  offend  the  wise  eye,  that  shall 
not  put  Nature  and  all  her  gentle  divinities  to 
shame,  is  the  great  problem.  In  such  matters,  not 
to  displease  the  eye  is  to  please  the  heart. 

Probably  the  most  that  is  to  be  aimed  at  in 
domestic  architecture  is  negative  beauty,  a  condition 
of  things  which  invites  or  suggests  beauty  to  those 
who  are  capable  of  the  sentiment,  because  a  house, 
truly  viewfid,  is  but  a  setting,  a  background,  and  is 
not  to  be  pushed  to  the  front  and  made  much  of  for 
its  own  sake.  It  is  for  shelter,  for  comfort,  for 
health  and  hospitality,  to  eat  in  and  sleep  in,  to  be 
born  in  and  to  die  in,  and  it  is  to  accord  in  appear- 
ance with  homely  every-day  usages,  and  with  natu- 
ral, universal  objects  and  scenes.  Indeed,  is  any- 
thing but  negative  beauty  to  be  aimed  at  in  the 
interior  decorations  as  well?  The  hangings  are  but 
a  background  for  the  pictures,  and  are  to  give  tone 
and  atmosphere  to  the  rooms;  while  the  whole  inte- 
rior is  but  a  background  for  the  human  form,  and 
for  the  domestic  life  to  be  lived  there. 

It  may  be  observed  that  what  we  call  beauty  of 
nature  is  mainly  negative  beauty ;  that  is,  the  mass, 
the  huge  rude  background,  made  up  of  rocks,  trees, 
hills,  mountains,  plains,  water,  etc.,  has  not  beauty 
as  a  positive  quality,  visible  to  all  eyes,  but  affords 
the  mind  the  conditions  of  beauty,  namely,  health, 
strength,  fitness,   etc.,   beauty  being  an  rxj/erunice 


250  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

of  the  beholder.  Some  things,  on  the  other  hand, 
as  flowers,  foliage,  brilliant  colors,  sunsets,  rain- 
bows, waterfalls,  may  be  said  to  be  beautiful  in 
and  of  themselves;  but  how  wearisome  the  world 
would  be  without  the  vast  negative  background 
upon  which  these  things  figure,  and  which  provokes 
and  stimulates  the  mind  in  a  way  the  purely  fair 
forms  do  not! 

How  we  are  drawn  by  that  which  retreats  and 
hides  itself,  or  gives  only  glimpses  and  half  views! 
Hence  the  value  of  trees  as  a  veil  to  an  ugly  orna- 
mental house,  and  the  admirable  setting  they  form 
to  the  picturesque  habitation  I  am  contemplating. 
But  the  house  the  heart  builds,  whether  it  be  cot- 
tage or  villa,  can  stand  the  broad,  open  light  with- 
out a  screen  of  any  kind.  Its  neutral  gray  or 
brown  tints,  its  wide  projections  and  deep  shadows, 
its  simple  strong  lines,  its  coarse  open-air  quality, 
its  ample  roof  or  roofs,  blend  it  with  the  landscape 
wherever  it  stands.  Such  a  house  seems  to  retreat 
into  itself,  and  invites  the  eye  to  follow.  Its  inte- 
rior warmth  and  coziness  penetrate  the  walls,  and 
the  eye  gathers  suggestions  of  them  at  every  point. 

We  can  miss  almost  anything  else  from  a  build- 
ing rather  than  a  look  of  repose.  This  it  must 
have.  Give  it  a  look  of  repose,  and  all  else  shall 
be  added.  This  is  the  supreme  virtue  in  architec- 
ture. Go  to  the  city,  walk  up  and  down  the  prin- 
cipal thoroughfares,  and  see  what  an  eff'ort  many  of 
the  buildings  make  to  stand  up!  What  columns 
and   arches   they   put   forth   where   no   columns   or 


ROOF-TREE  251 

arches  are  needed !  There  is  endless  variety  of  form 
and  line,  great  activity  of  iron  and  stone,  when 
the  eye  demands  simplicity  and  repose.  No  broad 
spaces,  no  neutral  ground.  The  architect  in  his 
search  for  variety  has  made  his  facade  bristle  with 
meaningless  forms.  But  now  and  then  the  eye  is 
greeted  by  honest  simplicity  of  structure.  Look  at 
that  massive  front  yonder,  built  of  granite  blocks, 
simply  one  stone  top  of  another  from  the  ground  to 
the  roof,  with  no  fuss  or  flutter  about  the  openings 
in  the  walls.  How  easy,  how  simple,  and  what  a 
look  of  dignity  and  repose !  But  probably,  the  next 
time  we  come  this  way,  they  will  have  put  hollow 
metal  hoods  over  the  windows,  or  otherwise  marred 
the  ease  and  dignity  of  that  front. 

Doubtless  one  main  source  of  the  pleasure  we 
take  in  a  brick  or  stone  wall  over  one  of  wood  is 
just  in  this  element  of  simplicity  and  repose;  the 
structure  is  visible;  there  is  nothing  intricate  or 
difhcult  about  it.  It  is  one  stone  or  one  brick  top 
of  another  all  the  way  up ;  the  building  makes  no 
effort  at  all  to  stand  up,  but  does  so  in  the  most 
natural  and  inevitable  way  in  the  world.  In  a 
wooden  building  the  anatomy  is  more  or  less  hid- 
den; we  do  not  see  the  sources  of  its  strength. 
The  same  is  true  of  a  stuccoed  or  rough- cast  build- 
ing; the  eye  sees  nothing  but  smooth,  expression- 
less surface. 

One  great  objection  to  the  Mansard  roof  in  the 
country,  now  happily  nearly  gone  out  of  date,  is 
that  it  fails  to  give  a  look  of  repose.      It  fails  also 


252  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

to  give  a  look  of  protection.  The  roof  of  a  build- 
ing allies  it  to  the  open  air,  and  carries  the  sugges- 
tion of  shelter  as  no  other  part  does ;  and  to  belittle 
it,  or  conceal  it,  or  in  any  way  take  from  the  h»nest 
and  direct  purport  of  it  as  the  shield,  the  main 
matter  after  all,  is  not  to  be  allowed.  In  the  city 
we  see  only  the  fronts,  the  facades  of  the  houses, 
and  the  flat  and  Mansard  are  less  offensive.  But 
in  the  country  the  house  is  individualized,  stands 
defined,  and  every  vital  and  necessary  part  is  to  be 
boldly  and  strongly  treated.  The  Mansard  gives  to 
the  country  house  a  smart,  dapper  appearance,  and 
the  effect  of  being  perched  up  and  looking  about 
for  compliments;  such  houses  seem  to  be  ready 
to  make  the  military  salute  as  you  pass  them. 
Whereas  the  steep,  high  roof  gives  the  house  a  set- 
tled, brooding,  introverted  look.  It  also  furnishes 
a  sort  of  foil  to  the  rest  of  the  building.-*^^^-^-— --^ 

What  constitutes  the  charm  to  the  eye  of  the  old- 
fashioned  country  barn  but  its  immense  roof,  —  a 
slope  of  gray  shingle  exposed  to  the  weather  like 
the  side  of  a  hill,  and  by  its  amplitude  suggesting 
a  bounty  that  warms  the  heart  ?  Many  of  the  old 
farmhouses,  too,  were  modeled  on  the  same  generous 
scale,  and  at  a  distance  little  was  visible  but  their 
great  sloping  roofs.  They  covered  their  inmates  as 
a  hen  covereth  her  brood,  and  are  touching  pictures 
of  the  domestic  spirit  in  its  simpler  forms. 

What  is  a  man's  house  but  his  nest,  and  why 
should  it  not  be  nest-like  both  outside  and  in,  — 
coarse,  strong,  negative  in  tone  externally,  and  snug 


ROOF-TREE  253 

and  well-feathered  and  modeled  by  the  heart  within  1 
Why  should  he  set  it  on  a  hill,  when  he  can  com- 
mand a  nook  under  the  hill  or  on  its  side  ?  Why 
should  it  look  like  an  observatory,  when  it  is  a  con- 
servatory and  dormitory  ? 

The  domestic  spirit  is  quiet,  informal,  unceremo- 
nious, loves  ease,  privacy,  low  tones;  loves  the 
chimney-corner,  the  old  arm-chair,  the  undress  garb, 
homely  cares,  children,  simple  pleasures,  etc.  ;  and 
why  should  it,  when  it  seeks  to  house  itself  from 
the  weather,  aim  at  the  formal,  the  showy,  the 
architectural,  the  external,  the  superfluous?  Let 
state  edifices  look  stately,  but  the  private  dwelling 
should  express  privacy  and  coziness. 

Every  man's  house  is  in  some  sort  an  effigy  of 
himself.  It  is  not  the  snails  and  shell-fish  alone 
that  excrete  their  tenements,  but  man  as  well. 
When  you  seriously  build  a  house,  you  make  public 
proclamation  of  your  taste  and  manners,  or  your 
want  of  these.  If  the  domestic  instinct  is  strong 
in  you,  and  if  you  have  humility  and  simplicity, 
they  will  show  very  plainly  in  your  dwelling;  if 
you  have  the  opposite  of  these,  false  pride  or  a 
petty  ambition,  or  coldness  and  exclusiveness,  they 
will  show  also.  A  man  seldom  builds  better  than  he 
knows,  when  he  assumes  to  know  anything  about  it. 

I  think  that,  on  examination,  it  will  be  found 
that  the  main  secret  of  the  picturesqueness  of  more 
simple  structures,  like  fences,  bridges,  sheds,  log- 
huts,  etc.,  is  that  the  motive,  the  principle  of  con- 
struction, is  so  open  and  obvious.      No  doubt  much 


254  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

might  be  done  to  relieve  the  flatness  of  our  pine- 
box  houses  by  more  frankness  and  boldness  in  this 
respect.  If  the  eye  could  see  more  fully  the  neces- 
sities of  the  case,  — how  the  thing  stood  up  and  was 
held  together,  that  it  was  not  pasteboard,  that  it 
did  not  need  to  be  anchored  against  the  wind,  etc., 
—  it  would  be  a  relief.  Hence  the  lively  pleasure 
we  feel  in  what  are  called  "timber-houses,"  and  in 
every  architectural  device  by  which  the  anatomy, 
the  real  framework,  of  the  structure,  inside  or  out, 
is  allowed  to  show,  or  made  to  serve  as  ornament. 
The  eye  craves  lines  of  strength,  evidence  of  weight 
and  stability.  But  in  the  wooden  house,  as  usually 
treated,  these  lines  are  nearly  all  concealed,  the  ties 
and  supports  are  carefully  suppressed,  and  the  eye 
must  feed  on  the  small,  fine  lines  of  the  finish. 
When  the  mere  outlines  of  the  frame  are  indicated, 
so  that  the  larger  spaces  appear  as  panels,  it  is  a 
great  help;  or  let  any  part  of  the  internal  economy 
show  through,  and  the  eye  is  interested,  as  the 
projection  of  the  chimney-stack  in  brick  or  stone 
houses,  or  the  separating  of  the  upper  from  the 
main  floor  by  a  belt  and  slight  projection,  or  by 
boldly  projecting  the  chamber  floor- joist,  and  let- 
ting one  story  overlap  the  other. 

As  I  have  already  said,  herein  is  the  main  reason 
of  the  picturesqueness  of  the  stone  house  above  all 
others.  Every  line  is  a  line  of  strength  and  neces- 
sity. We  see  how  the  mass  stands  up;  how  it  is 
bound  and  keyed  and  fortified.  The  construction 
is  visible;   the  corners   are   locked   by   header   and 


ROOF-TREE  255 

stretcher,  and  are  towers  of  strength;  the  openings 
pierce  the  walls  and  reveal  their  cohesion;  every 
stone  is  alive  with  purpose,  and  the  whole  affects 
one  as  a  real  triumph  over  Nature,  —  so  much  form 
and  proportion  wrested  from  her  grasp.  There  is 
power  in  stone,  and  in  a  less  measure  in  hrick;  but 
wood  must  be  boldly  handled  not  to  look  frail  or 
flat.  Then  unhewn  stone  has  the  negative  beauty 
which  is  so  desirable. 

I  say,  therefore,  build  of  stone  by  all  means,  if 
you  have  a  natural  taste  to  gratify,  and  the  rockier 
your  structure  looks,  the  better.  All  things  make 
friends  with  a  stone  house,  —  the  mosses  and  lichens, 
and  vines  and  birds.  It  is  kindred  to  the  earth 
and  the  elements,  and  makes  itself  at  home  in  any 
situation. 

When  I  set  out  to  look  vip  a  place  in  the  coun- 
try, I  was  chiefly  intent  on  finding  a  few  acres  of 
good  fruit  land  near  a  large  stone-heap.  While  I 
was  yet  undecided  about  the  land,  the  discovery  of 
the  stone-heap  at  a  convenient  distance,  vast  piles 
of  square  blocks  of  all  sizes,  wedged  off  the  up- 
right strata  by  the  frost  during  uncounted  ages,  and 
all  mottled  and  colored  by  the  weather,  made  me 
hasten  to  close  the  bargain.  The  large  country-seats 
in  the  neighborhood  were  mainly  of  brick  or  pine ; 
only  a  few  of  the  early  settlers  had  availed  them- 
selves of  this  beautiful  material  that  lay  in  such 
abundance  handy  to  every  man's  back  door,  and  in 
those  cases  the  stones  were  nearly  buried  in  white 
mortar,    as   if  they  were  something  to   be  ashamed 


256  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

of.  Truly,  the  besmeared,  beplastered  appearance  of 
most  stone  houses  is  by  no  means  a  part  of  their 
beauty.  Mortar  plays  a  subordinate  part  in  a  struc- 
ture, and  the  less  we  see  of  it  the  better. 

The  proper  way  to  treat  the  subject  is  this:  as 
the  work  progresses,  let  the  wall  be  got  ready  for 
pointing  up,  but  never  let  the  pointing  be  done, 
though  your  masons  will  be  sorely  grieved.  Let 
the  joints  be  made  close,  then  scraped  out,  cut  with 
the  trowel,  and,  while  the  mortar  is  yet  green, 
sprinkled  with  sand.  Instead,  then,  of  a  white 
band  defining  every  stone,  you  have  only  sharp  lines 
and  seams  here  and  there,  which  give  the  wall  a 
rocky,  natural  appearance. 

The  point  of  union  between  the  stones,  according 
to  my  eye,  should  be  a  depression,  a  shadow,  and 
not  a  raised  joint.  So  that  you  have  closeness  and 
compactness,  the  face  of  your  wall  cannot  be  too 
broken  or  rough.  When  the  rising  or  setting  sun 
shines  athwart  it,  and  brings  out  the  shadows,  how 
powerful  and  picturesque  it  looks !  It  is  not  in  cut 
or  hewn  stone  to  express  such  majesty.  I  like  the 
sills  and  lintels  of  undressed  stone  also, — "wild 
stone,"  as  the  old  backwoodsman  called  them,  un- 
tamed by  the  hammer  or  chisel.  If  the  lintels  are 
wide  enough,  a  sort  of  hood  may  be  formed  over 
the  openings  by  projecting  them  a  few  inches. 

It  seems  to  me  that  I  built  into  my  house  every 
one  of  those  superb  autumn  days  which  I  spent  in 
the  woods  getting  out  stone.  I  did  not  quarry  the 
limestone  ledge  into  blocks  any  more  than  I  quar- 


ROOF-TREE  257 

ried  the  delicious  weather  into  memories  to  adorn 
my  walls.      Every  load  that  was  sent  home  carried 
my  heart  and  happiness  with  it.      The  jewels  I  had 
uncovered  in  the  ddbris,  or  torn  from  the  ledge  in 
the  morning,  I  saw  in  the  jambs,  or  mounted  high 
on  the  corners  at  night.      Every  day  was  filled  with 
great  events.      The  woods  held  unknown  treasures. 
Those    elder   giants,    frost   and   rain,    had  wrought 
industriously ;  now  we  would  unearth  from  the  leaf- 
mould   an  ugly   customer,    a   stone   with   a  ragged 
quartz  face,  or  cavernous,  and  set  with  rock  crystals 
like  great  teeth,  or  else  suggesting  a  battered  and 
worm-eaten  skull  of  some  old  stone  dog.      These  I 
needed  a  sprinkling  of  for  their  quaintness,  and  to 
make  the  wall  a  true  compendium  of  the  locality. 
Then  we  would  unexpectedly  strike   upon  several 
loads  of  beautiful  blocks  all  in  a  nest;  or  we  would 
assault  the  ledge  in  a  new  place  with  wedge  and 
bar,    and   rattle   down  headers   and  stretchers  that 
surpassed  any  before.      I  had  to  be  constantly  on 
the  lookout  for  corner  stone,  for  mine  is  a  house  of 
seven  corners,  and  on  the  strength  and  dignity  of 
the  corners  the  beauty  of  the  wall  largely  depends. 
But  when  you  bait  your  hook  with  your  heart,  the 
fish  always  bite.      "The  boss  is  as  good  as  six  men 
in  the  woods,  getting  out  stone,"  flatteringly  spoke 
up  the  master-mason.      Certain  it  is  that  no  such 
stone  was  found  as  when  I  headed  the  search.     The 
men  saw  indifferently  with  their  eyes,  but  I  looked 
upon  the  ground  with  such  desire  that  I  saw  what 
was  beneath  the  moss  and  the  leaves.     With  them 


258  SIGNS   AND    SEASONS 

it  was  hard  labor  at  so  much  per  day,  with  me  it  was 
a  passionate  pursuit;  the  enthusiasm  of  the  chase 
venting  itself  with  the  bar  and  the  hammer,  and 
the  day  was  too  short  for  me  to  tire  of  the  sport. 

The  stone  was  exceptionally  fine,  both  in  form 
and  color.  Sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  we  had  struck 
upon  the  ruins  of  some  ancient  structure,  the  blocks 
were  so  regular  and  numerous.  The  ancient  stone- 
cutters, however,  had  shaped  them  all  to  a  particu- 
lar pattern,  which  was  a  little  off  the  square ;  but  in 
bringing  them  back  with  the  modern  pitching-tool 
the  rock  face  was  gained,  which  is  the  feature  so 
desirable. 

I  like  a  live  stone,  one  upon  which  time  makes 
an  impression,  which  in  the  open  air  assumes  a 
certain  tone  and  mellowness.  The  stone  in  my 
locality  surpasses  any  I  have  ever  seen  in  this 
respect.  A  warm  gray  is  the  ruling  tint,  and  a 
wall  built  of  this  stone  is  of  the  color  of  the  bowl 
of  the  beech-tree,  mottled,  lively,  and  full  of  char- 
acter. 

What  should  a  house  of  undressed  stone  be 
trimmed  out  with  but  unpainted  wood  ?  Oak,  ash, 
cedar,  cherry,  maple,  —  why  import  pine  from 
Michigan  or  Maine  when  nearly  all  our  woods  con- 
tain plenty  of  these  materials  ?  And  now  that  the 
planing-mills  are  so  abundant,  and  really  do  such 
admirable  work,  an  ordinary-priced  house  may  be 
trimmed  out  mainly  in  hard  wood  for  nearly  the 
same  cost  as  with  pine. 

In  my  case  I  began  at  the  stump;  I  viewed  the 


ROOF-TREE  259 

trees  before  they  were  cut,  and  took  a  hand  in  saw- 
ing them  down  and  hauling  them  to  the  mill.  One 
bleak  winter  day  I  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  moun- 
tain to  survey  a  large  butternut  which  some  hunt- 
ers had  told  me  of,  and  which  now,  one  year  later, 
I  see  about  me  in  base  and  panel  as  I  write.  One 
thus  gets  a  lively  background  of  interest  and  remi- 
niscence in  his  house  from  the  start. 

The  natural  color  and  grain  of  the  wood  give  a 
richness  and  simplicity  to  an  interior  that  no  art 
can  make  up  for.  How  the  eye  loves  a  genuine 
thing;  how  it  delights  in  the  nude  beauty  of  the 
wood!  A  painted  surface  is  a  blank,  meaningless 
surface;  but  the  texture  and  figure  of  the  wood  is 
full  of  expression.  It  is  the  principle  of  construc- 
tion again  appearing  in  another  field.  How  endless 
the  variety  of  figures  that  appear  even  in  one  kind 
of  wood,  and,  withal,  how  modest!  The  grainers 
do  not  imitate  oak.  They  cannot.  Their  surface 
glares;  their  oak  is  only  skin-deep;  their  figures 
put  nature  to  shame. 

Oak  is  the  wood  to  start  with  in  trimming  a 
house.  How  clear  and  strong  it  looks!  It  is  the 
master  wood.  When  allowed  to  season  in  the  log, 
it  has  a  richness  and  ripeness  of  tone  that  are  deli- 
cious. We  have  many  kinds,  as  rock  oak,  black 
oak,  red  oak,  white  oak,  —  all  equally  beautiful  in 
their  place.  Red  oak  is  the  softest,  and  less  liable 
to  spring.  By  combining  two  difi'erent  kinds,  as 
red  oak  and  white  oak  (white  oak  takes  its  name 
from  the  external  color  of  the  tree,  and  not  from 


260  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

the  color  of  the  wood,  which  is  dark  amber  color), 
a  most  pleasing  effect  is  produced. 

Butternut  is  the  softest  and  most  tractable  of 
what  are  called  hard  woods,  and  its  hue  is  emi- 
nently warm  and  mellow.  Its  figure  is  pointed 
and  shooting,  —  a  sort  of  Gothic  style  in  the  grain. 
It  makes  admirable  doors.  Western  butternut, 
which  can  usually  be  had  in  the  Albany  market, 
makes  doors  as  light  as  pine,  and  as  little  liable 
to  spring.  The  Western  woods  are  all  better 
than  the  Eastern  for  building  purposes.  They  are 
lighter,  coarser,  easier  worked.  They  grow  easier 
and  thriftier.  The  traveler  through  northern  Ohio 
and  Indiana  sees  a  wonderful  crop  of  forest  trees, 
tall,  uniform,  straight  as  candles,  no  knots,  no 
gnarls,  —  all  clear,  clean  timber.  The  soil  is  deep 
and  moist,  and  the  trees  grow  rank  and  rapid.  The 
chestnut,  ash,  and  butternut  grown  here  work  like 
pine,  besides  being  darker  and  richer  in  color  than 
the  same  woods  grown  in  leaner  and  more  rocky 
soils.  Western  black  ash  is  especially  beautiful. 
In  connection  with  our  almost  bone-white  sugar 
maple  for  panels,  it  makes  charming  doors,  —  just 
the  thing  for  chambers,  and  scarcely  more  expensive 
than  pine.  Of  our  Eastern  woods,  red  cedar  is  also 
good,  with  its  pungent,  moth-expelling  odor,  and 
should  not  be  neglected.  It  soon  fades,  but  it  is 
very  pleasing,  with  its  hard,  solid  knots,  even  then. 
No  doubt  some  wash  might  be  applied  that  would 
preserve  its  color. 

There   is   a   species   of   birch  growing  upon  oui 


^  ROOF-TREE  261 

mountains  that  makes  an  admirable  finish.  It  is 
usually  called  red  or  cherry  birch,  and  it  has  a  long 
wave  or  curl  that  is  found  in  no  other  wood.  It  is 
very  tough  and  refractory,  and  must  be  securely 
fastened.  A  black  ash  door,  with  maple  or  white 
pine  panels  set  in  a  heavy  frame  of  this  red,  wavy 
birch,  is  a  most  pleasing  chamber  finish.  For  a 
hard- wood  floor,  in  connection  with  oak  or  ash,  it 
is  to  be  preferred  to  cherry. 

Growing  alongside  of  the  birch  is  the  soft  maple 
—  the  curly  species  —  that  must  not  be  overlooked. 
It  contains  light  wood  and  dark  wood,  as  a  fowl 
contains  white  meat  and  dark  meat.  It  is  not 
unusual  to  find  a  tree  of  this  species,  the  heart  of 
which  will  be  a  rich  grayish  brown,  suggesting,  by 
something  in  the  tone  and  texture  of  it,  the  rarer 
shades  of  silk,  while  the  outer  part  is  white,  and 
fine  as  ivory.  I  have  seen  a  wainscoting  composed 
of  alternate  strips  of  this  light  and  dark  wood  from 
the  same  tree  that  was  exquisite,  and  a  great  rarity. 

The  eye  soon  tires  of  sharp,  violent  contrasts. 
In  general,  that  which  is  striking  or  taking  at  first 
sight  is  to  be  avoided  in  interior  finishings  or  deco- 
rations, especially  in  the  main  or  livmg  rooms.  In 
halls,  a  more  pronounced  style  is  permissible,  and 
the  contrast  of  walnut  with  pine,  or  maple,  or  oak 
is  more  endurable.  What  one  wants  in  his  living- 
rooms  is  a  quiet,  warm  tone,  and  the  main  secret 
of  this  is  dark  furniture  and  hangings,  with  a  dash 
of  color  here  and  there,  and  floods  of  light,  —  big 
windows,    and  plenty  of  them.      No  room  can  be 


262  SIGNS   AND   SEASONS 

cheerful  and  inviting  without  plenty  of  light,  and 
then,  if  the  walls  are  light  too,  and  the  carpets 
showy,  there  is  a  flatness  and  garishness.  The 
marble  mantel-piece,  with  its  senseless  vases,  and 
the  marble-topped  centre-table,  add  the  finishing 
touch  of  coldness  and  stiffness.  Marble  makes  good 
tombstones,  but  it  is  an  abomination  in  a  house, 
either  in  furniture  or  in  mantels. 

There  remains  only  to  be  added  that,  after  you 
have  had  the  experience,  after  the  house  is  finished 
and  you  have  had  a  year  or  two  to  cool  off  in  (it 
takes  that  long),  you  will  probably  feel  a  slight 
reaction.  Or  it  may  be  more  than  that:  the  scales 
may  fall  from  your  eyes,  and  you  may  see  that  it  is 
not  worth  while  after  all  to  lay  so  much  emphasis 
on  the  house,  a  place  to  shelter  you  from  the  ele- 
ments, and  that  you  have  had  only  a  different  but 
the  same  unworthy  pride  as  the  rest,  as  if  anything 
was  not  good  enough,  and  as  if  manhood  was  not 
sufficient  to  itself  without  these  props. 

You  will  have  found,  too,  that  with  all  your 
pains  you  have  not  built  a  house,  nor  can  you  build 
one,  that  just  fills  the  eye  and  gives  the  same 
aesthetic  pleasure  as  does  the  plain  unpainted  struc- 
ture that  took  no  thought  of  appearances,  and  th^ 
has  not  one  stroke  about  it  foreign  to  the  necessities 
of  the  case. 

Pride,  when  it  is  conscious  of  itself,  is  death  to 
the  nobly  beautiful,  whether  in  dress,  manners, 
equipage,  or  house-building.  The  great  monumen- 
tal structures  of  the  Old  World  show  no  pride  or 


ROOF-TREE  263 

vanity,  but  on  the  contrary  great  humility  and  sin- 
gleness of  purpose.  The  Gothic  cathedral  does  not 
try  to  look  beautiful ;  it  is  beautiful  from  the  start, 
and  entirely  serious.  London  Bridge  is  a  heroic 
resolution  in  stone,  and  apparently  has  but  one  pur- 
pose, and  that  is  to  carry  the  paved  street  with  all 
its  surging  masses  safely  over  the  river. 

Unless,  therefore,  you  have  had  the  rare  success 
of  building  without  pride,  your  house  will  offend 
you  by  and  by,  and  offend  others. 

Perhaps  after  one  had  graduated  in  this  school 
and  built  four  or  five  houses,  he  would  have  the 
courage  to  face  the  problem  squarely,  and  build, 
much  more  plainly  and  unpretentiously,  a  low,  nest- 
ling structure  of  undressed  boards,  or  unhammered 
stone,  and  be  content,  like  the  oyster,  with  the 
roughest  of  shells  without,  so  that  he  be  sure  of 
the  mother-of-pearl  within. 


INDEX 


Acorns,  11. 

Adder'a-tongue,  28. 

Agassiz,  Louis,  31. 

Ancients,  false  science  of  the,  18-20. 

Anemone,  169,  170. 

Ants,  as  weather  prophets,  7. 

Apples,  frozen,  49,  50,  54,  134. 

April,  the  relish  of,  164 ;  cresses  in, 

164,  165 ;  arrival  of  birds  in,  166, 

167  ;    the    flowers    of,    169-171 ; 

green    landscapes    of,     171-173  ; 

swelling  buds  in,  173-177. 
Arbutus,  trailing,  28,  169. 
Arnold,  Matthew,  quotation  from, 

159. 
Ash,  black,  260,  261. 
Audubon,  John  James,  169. 

Bald  Mountain,  122-124. 

Barns,  Dutch,  222-224;  old  un- 
painted,  223,  224  ;  modern  painted, 
224  ;  building,  228,  229  ;  moving, 
229,  230  ;  roofs  of,  252. 

Bear,  black  (Ursus  americanus), 
the  rifleman  and  the  bear,  116, 
117  ;  119  ;  sagacity  of  a  mother, 
120,   121 ;  122,  123. 

Bee.  See  Bumblebee  and  Honey- 
bee. 

Bee,  carpenter,  176. 

Beech-nuts,  11. 

Birch,  paper  or  canoe,  uses  of,  99- 
103. 

Birch,  red  or  cherry,  260,  261. 

Birds,  winter  flocks  of,  61  ;  their 
lives  subject  to  many  dangers, 
63-65 ;  the  home  instinct  in,  63 ; 
dangers  to  early  nests,  65 ;  loca- 
tions of  nests,  71 ;  position  of  the 
female  among,  137  ;  spring  ar- 
rival of,  166,  167  ;  silence  and 
songs  of  migrating,  167,  168  ;  bat- 
tles between  female,  168,  169 ; 
chatter  and  silence  of  young, 
203 ;  their  sufferings  from  ver- 
min, 204,  205 ;  collectors  among 
the  worst  enemies   of,  210-214  ; 


milliners  as  the  enemies  of,  214; 
charmed  by  snakes,  215-217. 

Birds  of  prey,  83. 

Birthroot.     See  Trillium,  purple. 

Bitter-sweet,  11,  51. 

Blackbird,  red-winged.  See  Star- 
ling, red-shouldered. 

Black-thorn,  169. 

Bladder-nut,  11. 

Bladderwort,  homed,  26,  124,  125. 

Blind  miller,  a,  30. 

Blood-root,  28,  170,  173. 

Blueberry,  123. 

Bluebird  {Sialia  sialis),  60,  66,  67, 
91,  132  ;  wintering  in  New  York 
State,  164;  battle  between  rival 
females,  168,  169 ;  204  ;  notes  of, 
169  ;  nest  of,  65. 

Bobolink  {DoHchonyx  oryzivorus), 
63,  82-84  ;  notes  of,  83 ;  nest  of, 
81-83. 

Bob-white.     See  Quail. 

Bryant,  William  CuUen,  his  Yellow 
Violet,  26,  27  ;  his  hymn  to  the 
sea,  157,  158. 

Buds  of  trees,  173-177. 

Bullfrog,  164. 

Bumblebee,  the  sapper  and  miner 
preceding  the  honey-bee,  17. 

Bunting,  indigo.     See  Indigo-bird. 

Bunting,  snow,  or  snowflake  {Flec- 
trophenax  nivalis),  57,  127,  134, 
238. 

Burns,  Robert,  quotation  from,  93. 

Butternuts,  55,  56. 

Butternut-tree,  259;  the  wood  of, 
260,  261. 

Button  wood.  See  Plane-tree,  Amer- 
ican. 

Byron,  Lord,  159. 

Camp,  a  winter,  121,  122. 

Camping,  in  Maine,  99-126 ;  com- 
fortable beds,  105,  106. 

Canary,  204. 

Canoe,  the  birch-bark,  101-103,  109, 
112,  113. 


266 


INDEX 


Caribou  {Rangifer  tarandus,  var. 
caribou),  119/122. 

Carrion-flower.  See  Smilax  Iierba- 
cea. 

Catbird  {Galeoscoptes  carolinensis) 
80,  167  ;  as  an  egg-sucker,  206- 
208  ;  uest  of,  207. 

Caterpillars,  164. 

Catfish,  197. 

Catskills,  165. 

Cedar,  red,  260. 

Cedar-berries,  134. 

Cedar-bird,  or  cedar  waxwing  (Am- 
pelis  cedrorum),  67,  83,  84,  91, 
134  ;  notes  of,  84  ;  nest  of,  65. 

Celtis.    See  Sugar-berry. 

Chat,  yellow-breasted  {Icteria  vi- 
rens),  80 ;  nest  of,  212. 

Chestnut,  11,  52. 

Chewink,  or  towhee  {Pipilo  ery- 
throphthalmns),  80. 

Chickadee  (Parus  atricapillus),  51, 
57,  132  ;  on  her  nest,  206  ;  notes 
of,  206  ;  nest  of,  147,  206. 

Chipmunk  {Tamias  striatus),  in 
winter,  56. 

Chippie,  or  hair-bird,  or  chipping 
sparrow,  or  social  sparrow  {Spi- 
zella  socialis),  67,  203  ;  nest  of, 
210. 

City  and  country,  219-221. 

Claytouia,  26,  170. 

Clinto7iia  borealis,  125. 

Codfish,  198. 

Collectors,  210-214. 

Coltsfoot,  169. 

Copperhead,  164. 

Country  and  city,  212-221. 

Cowbird  {Molothrus  ater),  parasit- 
ical habits  of,  72-74, 210  ;  a  com- 
panion of  the  cattle,  210. 

Cows,  234  ;  foddering,  237 ;  the 
true  pathfinders  and  pathmakers, 
238 ;  sweet  and  wholesome  in- 
fluence of,  238  ;  to  and  from  the 
pasture,  239 ;  salting,  239 ;  de- 
lightful feeders,  240. 

Cranberry,  mountain,  123. 

Creeper,  brown  {Certhia  Jamiliaris 
americmia),  61. 

Cress.    See  Watercress. 

Cress,  spring,  165. 

Crossbills,  41. 

Crow,  American  {Corvus  ameri- 
canus),  food  of,  50 ;  52,  127,  135  ; 
associating  with  eagles,  195,  196  ; 
notes  of,  6. 

Crow,  fish  {Corvus  ossifragus),  65  ; 
a  despicable  tliief,  70, 71;  range  of, 
70  ;  notes  of,  70  ;  nest  of,  70,  71. 


Crustacean,    a    phyllopodous,    21- 

23. 
Cuckoo  {Coccyzus  sp.),  169. 
Cuckoo,  European,  19,  129. 

Dairy,  the,  234-240. 

Dandelion,  matuiing  and  scattering 

its  seed,  9 ;  26,  27,  170. 
Darwin,  Charles,   25,   31,   32,   151, 

157. 
Deer,  Virginia   {Cariacus  Virginia- 

nus),  119, 122. 
Delaware  River,  179,  180. 
Dicentra,  169. 
Dogs,  49. 
Ducks,  wild,  196. 
Dutch,  the,  settling  in  New  York, 

221 ;  their  barns,  222-224 ;   their 

farmhouses,  223,  224. 

Eagles,  among  the  ice-floes  of  the 
Hudson,  195,  196  ;  surrounded  by 
crows,  195,  196. 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  quotations 
from,  39,  42,  89,  158,  187,  188; 
his  love  for  the  pine,  43,  44  ;  sing- 
ing of  the  sea,  158. 
England,   beginning   of    spring   in, 

169  ;  full  watercourses  in,  ISO- 
Ermine.     See  H'easel. 
Eubranchipus  vernalis,  21-23. 

Farm,  the,  picturesque  life  and 
scenes  of,  224-230  ;  homespun  gar- 
ments of,  230  ;  wheels  and  looms, 
231  ;  taking  the  produce  to  mar- 
ket, 231 ,  232  ;  the  essential  charm 
of,  232,  233  ;  local  industries,  233  ; 
the  dairy,  234-240;  haying,  235- 
237  ;  sheep,  240 ;  sugar-making, 
240-243  ;  fence-building,  243,  244  ; 
its  healthful  influence  on  the 
farmer,  244,  245. 

Farmhouses,  Dutch,  223  ;  log,  225  ; 
modern,  226  ;  building,  228,  229 ; 
moving,  229,  230  ;  roofs  of,  252. 

Fence-building,  243,  244. 

Ferns,  birth  of,  175. 

Finch,  purple  {Carpodacus  ptir- 
pureiis),  91. 

Fish,  retreating  up  the  Hudson, 
197,  198. 

Flagg,  Wilson,  quotation  from,  42. 

Flea,  snow,  24. 

Flicker.    See  High-hole. 

Flycatcher,  least  {Empidonax  min- 
imus), robbed  by  a  catbird,  207 ; 
rebuilding  a  nest,  207,  208  ;  a  mo- 
ther shading  her  young,  208 ; 
notes  of,  207  ;  nest  of,  207,  208. 


INDEX 


267 


Fox,  black  or  silver-gray  {Vtdpes  ' 
vulpes,  var.  argentatus),  24,  117.     j 

Fox,  red  (  Vulpes  vulpes,  var.  •/«/- 
vus),  49,  60,  93,  117,  127  ;  tracks 
of,  128  ;  238. 

Frog.     See  Bullfrog. 

Frog,  piping.  See  Hyla,  Picker- 
lug's. 

Frog,  wood,  14-16. 

Frogs,  as  weather  prophets,  16. 

Fungus,  phallic,  29. 

Furlow  Lake,  11. 

Ghost-story,  a,  110,  111. 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson,  his  The 
New  Day,  159. 

Gnatcatcher,  blue-gray  {Polioptila 
ccerulea),  nest  of,  79. 

Goldfinch,  American,  or  yellow- 
bird  {Spinas  ti'is(is),  57,  61,  83, 
91 ;  a  curious  accident,  204  ;  nest 
of,  65. 

Goose,  wild  or  Canada  {Branfa 
canadensis),  196. 

Grasshoppers,  in  winter,  24. 

Grosbeak,  pine  (Pinicola  enu- 
cleator),  41,  127,  134,  176. 

Grouse,  ruffed,  or  partridge  (Bon- 
asa  umbellus),  46,  51,  57,  93,  127, 
176. 

Guide.     See  Nathan,  Uncle. 

Hair-bird.     See  Chippie. 

Hare,  northern  {Lepus  americanus, 
var.  virginianus),  93. 

Harebell,  125. 

Hawks,  146. 

Haying,  226,  235-237. 

Hemlock,  the  rooting  of  a  young, 
11-13  ;  manner  of  growth  of,  36, 
37 ;  shedding  its  leaves,  38,  43 ; 
beauties  and  uses  of,  46,  47,  54. 

Hepatica,  25 ;  the  first  flower  of 
spring,  169,  170  ;  its  beauty,  170  ; 
fragrance  of  individuals,  170, 171. 

Hetchels,  231. 

Hickory,  174. 

Higli-liole,  or  flicker  {Colaptes  au- 
raius),  drumming  of,  143  ;  notes 
of,  143 ;  nest  of,  203. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  159. 

Homer,  quotations  from,  89. 

Honey-bees,  7,  16 ;  gleaning  after 
the  bumblebee,  17 ;  method  of 
filling  her  baskets,  17,  18 ;  false 
science  of  the  ancient  observers 
in  regard  to,  18, 19 ;  flowers  visited 
by,  28 ;  their  first  spring  harvest, 
165,  166;  collecting  and  using 
propolis,  174. 


Honey-locust,  11. 

Honeysuckle,  134. 

Hoops  and  hoop-poles,  233. 

Hornet,  sand,  176. 

Houses,  the  owners'  satisfaction  in 
building,  247,  248  ;  negative  beau- 
ty desirable  in,  248-250  ;  a  look  of 
repose  desirable  in,  250, 251 ;  roofs, 
251,252;  should  express  privacy 
and  coziuess,  252,  253  ;  eflBgies  of 
their  owners,  253  ;  framework 
should  be  visible  in  frame  houses, 
253, 254 ;  picturesqueness  of  stone, 
254,  255 ;  proper  use  of  mortar  in 
stone  houses,  255,  256  ;  quarrying 
stone  for  a  house,  256-258  ;  beau- 
ties of  various  woods  for  finisliing, 
258-261 ;  quiet  warm  colors  de- 
sirable in  finisliings  and  decora- 
tions, 261,  262;  simplicity,  after 
all,  most  desirable  in,  262,  263. 
See  Farmhouses. 

Hudson  River,  an  arm  of  the  sea, 
183  ;  calms  and  ripples  on,  184  ; 
breaking  up  of  the  ice  in,  185-187  ; 
freezing  over,  187  ;  ice  cannon- 
ades on,  187-189  ;  snow  on,  190  ; 
ice-harvesting  on,  190-192 ;  frost 
ferns  on  the  ice,  193  ;  ice-boating 
on,  193,  194  ;  ice  stops  navigation 
on,  194  ;  sinking  of  a  steamer  in, 
195  ;  eagles  on,  195,  196 ;  a  high- 
way of  wild  life,  196  ;  current  and 
tides  of,  196-198  ;  a  great  retreat 
of  fish  up-stream,  197,  198 ;  geo- 
logical history  of,  198-200. 

Hugo,  Victor,  36. 

Humboldt,  Baron  von,  quotations 
from,  5,  10,  49. 

Humming-bird,  ruby-throated  {Tro- 
chilus  colubris),  106 ;  nest  of,  79, 
212. 

Hyla,  Pickering's,  164,  165. 

Ice,  breaking  up  in  the  Hudson, 
185-187  ;  formation  on  the  Hud- 
son, 187  ;  cannonade  of  the, 187- 
189 ;  harvest  of,  190-192  ;  frost 
ferns  on,  193  ;  a  steamer  sunk  by, 
194  195. 

Ice-boats,  193,  194. 

Indigo-bird,  or  indigo  bunting 
(Passerina  cyanea),  167. 

Jay,  blue  {Cynnodtta  eristata)  in 
winter,  50,  51  ;  hiding  food,  51-53  ; 
127,129;  a  nest-robber,  201,202; 
a  case  of  revenge,  202 ;  nest  of, 
202. 


268 


INDEX 


Juno 0.    See  Snowbird. 
Juuif  er,  11. 

Kingbird  ( Tyrannus  tyrminus),  eggs 
devoured  by  a  fish  crow,  69,  70 ; 
83,  167,  212  ;  nest  of,  69,  70. 

Kinglet,  ruby  crowned  {Regulus 
calendula),  song  of,  168. 

Kinglets,  60,  61. 

Lady's-slipper,  yellow,  26. 

Lark,    shore    or  horned  {Otocoris 

alpestris),  57,  134. 
Laurel,  51. 
Linnsea,  125. 
Linnet,  pine,  or  pine  siskin  (  Spinus 

pinus),  41. 
Log-cock.     See  Woodpecker,   pile- 

ated. 
Looms,  231. 
Loon  {Urinaior  imber),  habits  and 

appearance  of,  106-108 ;  196 ;  notes 

of,  106,  107. 
Lotus,  tree.    Se£  Sugar-berry. 
Lowell,     James    Russell,     his    Al 

Fresco,  27  ;  quotations  from,  43, 

90. 

Maine,  camping  in,  99-126. 
Maple,  European,  173, 175. 
Maple,  soft,  173  ;  wood  of,  261. 
Maple,    sugar,    supplying    food   for 
squirrels,    54,    55;  tapped     by  a 
woodpecker,  145,  146;  buds  and 
flowers  of,  175  ;   effect  of  tapping 
on,  242  ;  wood  of,  260,  261. 
March,  a  typical  day  of,  4  ;  the  full 

streams  of,  177-180. 
Marigold,  marsh,  173. 
Meadowlark  {Sturnella  magna)  in 

winter,  60  ;  63. 
Merganser,  126, 

Mice,  wild,  in  winter,  58,  59,  93. 
Miller,  Joachin,    quotations    from, 

158,  159. 
Millinery,  barbarous,  214. 
Mockingbird  {Mimus  polyglottos), 

211,  212. 
Moose  {Alee  alces),  hunting,  117- 

119. 
Moth,  violet-colored,  170. 
Mountain-ash,  134. 
Mount  Bigelow,  124. 
Mouse,   meadow,  tunnels  and  nests 

of,  178,  179  ;  swimming,  179. 
Mouse,       white-footed       {Calomys 
americanus),  in  winter,  59  ;   206. 
See  Mice,  wild. 
Moving  a  building,  229,  230. 
Mowing,  226,  236,  237. 


Moxie  Lake,  camping  on,  99,  101, 
109-126  ;  description  of,  112. 

Muskrat  {Fiber  zibethicus),  as  a 
weather  prophet,  16  ;  178. 

Nathan,  Uncle,  a  guide,  100-102; 
his  characteristics,  103,  104,  108  ; 
tells  a  yarn,  109-111 ;  his  hunting 
stories,  115-121  ;  his  method  of 
making  a  winter  camp,  121,  122  ; 
peering  through  the  woods,  122, 
123, 125. 

NaturaUst,  the  closet,  213. 

Nature,  best  seen  at  home,  1-4 ; 
ceaseless  experiments  of,  13  ;  and 
science,  20  ;  her  facts  must  be  put 
through  a  mental  or  emotional 
process  in  order  to  be  of  value, 
31-33  ;  man's  one  interest  in,  33. 

Neic  Day,  The,  by  Richard  Watson 
Gilder,  159. 

New  York,  settlement  of,  221. 

Nightingale,  169. 

Nuthatches,  61,  91,  129,  132,  135, 
146,  147  ;  notes  of,  241. 

Oak,  the  master  wood,  259. 

Oak,  black,  259. 

Oak,  red,  259. 

Oak,  rock,  259. 

Oak,  white,  28,  259. 

Oaks,  11,  52. 

Observation,  best  done  at  home, 
1-4  ;  cross-questioning  necessary 
in,  11 ;  patience  and  perseverance 
necessary  in,  13,  14 ;  of  the  an- 
cients, 18-20 ;  specialization  in 
powers  of,  29  ;  quick  perception 
necessary  in,  31 ;  capacity  to  take 
a  hint  necessary  in,  31, 32. 

Oriole,  Baltimore  {Icterus  galbula), 
destruction  of  three  broods  of, 
66 ;  83,  167,  202,  203  ;  nest  of,  66, 
67,  71,  203. 

Ornithologists,  210,  213. 

Otter,  American  {Lutra  hudsonica), 
196. 

Owl,  a  stuffed,  202,  203. 
Owl,  screech,  or  red,  or  mottled 
{Megascops  asio),  66 ;  two  winter 
neighbors,  129-133 ;  strange  death 
of  a,  203 ;  notes  of,  130 ;  nest  of, 
132. 
OwlsTe,  202,  203,  238. 

Partridge.     See  Grouse,  ruffed. 

Pepper-root.     See  Toothwort. 
I  Perch,  wliite,  197. 
I  Perch,  yellow,  197. 
I  Pewee,  wood  ( Contopus  virens),  her 


INDEX 


2G9 


attitude  on  her  nest,  78,  79  ;  nest 
of,  71,  78,  79. 
Phoebe-bird  {Sayomis  phoebe),  77  ; 
young  of,  78  ;  in  a  bed  of  torment, 
205;  nest  of,  63,  77,  78,  205. 
Pine,  the,  ancient  look  of,  39, 40  ;  the 
tree  of  silence,  40  ;  its  friendli- 
ness to  man,  40 ;  praise  of,  41 ; 
tlie  tree  of  the  hardy  and  domi- 
nmt  races,  41,  42. 

Pine,  white,  37  ;  changing  its  leaves, 
39  ;  uses  of,  41 ;  in  poetry,  42-44  ; 
favorite  soil  of,  44 ;  stumps  used 
for  fences,  45  ;  second  growth  of, 
45 ;  the  original  growth,  45,  46, 
99. 

Pine,  yellow,  the  rooting  of  a,  12, 
13;  37. 

Pines,  manner  of  growth  of,  35-37  ; 
shedding  their  leaves,  38,  47. 

Plane-tree,  American,  or  button- 
wood,  or  sycamore,  fruit  of,  9, 
10  ;  buds  of,  175. 

Pleasant  Pond,  camping  on,  104-108, 
112. 

Pliny,  19,  49,  174. 

Plutarch,  19  ;  quotations  from,  96. 

Poetry,  the  translation  of  facts  into, 
32,  33. 

Poison  ivy,  51. 

Pond-lily,  112. 

Primrose,  evening,  26. 

Propolis,  174. 

Quail,  or  bob- white  {Colinus  vir- 
ginianus),  51 ;  in  winter,  53,  54, 
60,93. 

Quail  and  snake,  215,  216. 

Rabbit,    gray    {Lepus    sylvaticns), 

food    in  winter,  57,  58 ;   127 ;   a 

pleasant  neighbor,  128. 
"Raisin's,"  228,  229. 
Rastreador,  the,  30. 
Rat,  87. 
Redpoll  {Acanthis  linaria),  57,  134, 

438. 
Redstart  {Seiophaga  ruiicilla),  74, 

75 ;  nest  of,  74,  75, 
Rifleman  in  the  woods,  a,  115-117. 
Rivers.     See  Streams. 
Robin,   American   {Merula  migra- 

toria),   60,    63,   69,     80,   83,   84; 

wintering    in  New    York  State, 

164;   168;    attacked   by  vermin, 

205  ;  notes  of,  241  ;  nest  of,  205. 
Roots,   in    diflBcult    situations,    12, 

13. 
Rossetti,   Dante    Gabriel,     his  Sea 

Limits,  158. 


Salt,  the  American  craving  for,  149, 
150  ;   the  cow's  fondness  for,  239. 
Saxifrage,  170. 
Science,  and   nature,  20  ;   the  trans- 

formation  of  facts  into,  32,  33. 
Sea,  the,  salt  air  of,  149,  150 ;   ceas- 
less  rocking  of,   150-152;   astro- 
nomic aspect  of,  152,  153  ;  type  of 
fickleness  yet   unchanging,   153 ; 
the  boundary  of  two  worlds,  153  ; 
ships  on,  153,  154  ;  spirit  of,  154  ; 
voice     of,    154,    155;    serpentine 
treachery  of,  155,  156 ;  the  surf, 
156  ;   geological   history  of,    157  ; 
in  poetry,  157-161  ;  paradoxes  of, 
181. 
Seal,  harbor  {Phoca  vilulina),  196. 
Seeds,  9-11,  176. 
Shakespeare,  157. 
Shawangunk  Mountains,  124. 
Sheep,  on  the  farm,  240. 
Ships,  153,  154. 
Shrike,  201. 
Shrimp,  fairy,  21-23. 
Siskin,  pine.     See  Linnet,  pine. 
Skunk  {Mephitis  mrphilica),  81. 
Skunk-cabbage,  28. 
Smilax  herbacea,  or  carrion-flower, 

28,  29. 
Snake,  black,  robbing  a  song  spar- 
row's nest,  208-210 ;  217. 
Snake,   striped,    charmmg  a  song 

sparrow,  216. 
Snakes,  universal  loathing  of,  208  ; 
their  powers    of    charming,  210, 
215-217. 
Snow,  as  a  covering,  94,  95 ;  minia- 
ture scenery  in,  95,  96  ;  geological 
lesson    from,  96;   the    friend   of 
man,  97 ;  a  coverlid  for  the  ice, 
190. 
Snowbird,   or    slate-colored  Junro 
{Junco  hijemalis),  57,  61, 135, 146 ; 
nest  of,  65,  210. 
Snowflake.     See  Bunting,  snow. 
Snow-storms,  the  approach  of,  89, 
90 ;    a    typical    snow-storm,   90- 
94. 
Sparrow,  Canada  or  tree   {Spizella 

monticol(i),  57,  61,  134. 
Sparrow,  chipping.     S^r  Chippie. 
Sparrow,  English   {Passrr  domfsti- 
ctts),  undesirable  neiglibors,  133  ; 
hardiness  and  prolificnesa  of,  134. 
Sparrow,    fox    (Piissmlla     iliacit), 
1      167  ;  song  of,  167. 
'  Sparrow,  social.     Srr  Chippie. 
1  Sparrow,  song  {Mtlospizu/iisciata), 
'      and   cowbird,  74  ;    battle   with   a 
I      snake,   208-210 ;    charmed    by  a 


270 


INDEX 


snake,  216 ;  nest  of,  68,  69,  74, 
208,  209. 

Sparrow,  white-crowned  {Zono- 
trichia  leucophrys),  167. 

Sparrow,  white-throated  {Zono- 
iricMa  albicollis),  167  ;  notes  of, 
167. 

Spider,  176. 

Spring,  the  first  stirrings  of  life  in, 
23,  24,  165,  166;  the  English 
spring  much  earlier  tlian  ttiat  of 
New  England  and  New  York,  169  ; 
landscapes  of  early  spring,  171- 
173  ;  full  streams  of,  177-180. 

Spruce,  36,  99. 

Spruce,  Norway,  manner  of  growth 
of,  37,  38. 

Squirrel,  flying  {Sciuropterus  vo- 
lans),  57. 

Squirrel,  gray  (Scmrns  carolinen- 
sis,  var.  hucotis),  53,  56. 

Squirrel,  red  {Sciuriis  hudsonicus), 
46 ;  winter  food  of,  54,  55  ;  hoard- 
ing nuts,  55  ;  gnawing  butternuts, 
56  ;  65,  78,  81 ;  as  a  destroyer  of 
the  eggs  and  young  cf  birds,  84, 
207  ;  chased  by  a  weasel,  87  ;  127, 
217. 

Starling,  red-shouldered,  or  red- 
winged  blackbird  {Agelaius  phce- 
niceus),  63,  179  ;  notes  of,  179. 

Steamer  Sunnyside,  loss  of,  195. 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence,  159. 

Stoat.    See  Weasel. 

Stone,  quarr3ring,  255-258. 

Storms,  signs  of,  5-8. 

Streams,  their  fullness  in  spring,  177- 
180 ;  their  fullness  in  the  early 
geologic  ages,  180,  181 ;  different 
attractions  of  large  and  small, 
183,  184. 

Sugar-berry,  or  tree-lotus,  or  celtis, 
10. 

Sugar-making,  240-24VJ. 

Sumac,  M,  175. 

Sumac,  poison,  51. 

Sumac,  smooth,  28. 

Susquehanna  River,  180. 

Swallow,  barn  {Chelidon  erythro- 
gaster),  spring  arrival  of,  166. 

Swallow,  chimney,  or  chimney  swift 
{ChcBtiira  pelagica),  203. 

Swallow,  European,  169. 

Swallows,  as  weather  prophets,  6, 
7  ;  hibernating  of,  16. 

Swan,  whistling  {Olor  columbia- 
nus),  2. 

Swift,  chimney.  See  Swallow, 
chimney. 

Sycamore.    See  Plane-tree. 


Tanager,  scarlet  {Piranga  erythro- 

melas),  167  ;  nest  of,  71. 
Taylor,  Bayard,  159. 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  157. 
Thoreau,  Henry  D.,  his  Walden,  3; 

20 ;  searching  for  the  first  sign  of 

spring,  23 ;   quotations  from,  23, 

184,  187. 
Thrasher,   brown    {Harporhynchxis 

rufzts),  77,  80,  85;  notes  of,  76, 

77  ;  nest  of,  76,  77. 
Threshing,  227. 
Thrush,  hermit  {Turdus  aonalasch- 

kce  pallasii),  notes  of,  167 ;  nest 

of,  80. 
Thrush,  Wilson's.     See  Veery. 
Thrush,  wood  {Turdus  mustelinus), 

80,  84,  167  ;  notes  of,  81  ;  nest  of, 

80,  81,  207. 
Toothwort,  or  pepper-root  {Denta- 

ria),  165. 
Towhee.     See  Che  wink. 
Tree-lotus.    See  Sugar-berry. 
Trillium,  170. 

Trillium,  purple,  or  birthroot,  29. 
Trout,    brook,   of    Pleasant    Pond, 

104, 105 ;  of  Moxie  Lake,  112-114, 

126. 
Trout-fishing,  in  Pleasant  Pond,  104, 

105  ;  in  Moxie  Lake,  113-115,  126  ; 

a  new  trick  in,  114,  115. 

Veery,  or  Wilson's  thrush  {Turdus 

fuscescens),  nest  of,  80. 
Vermin,  sufferings  of  birds  from, 

204,  205. 
Violet,  28. 

Violet,  arrow-leaved,  25,  26. 
Violet,  blue,  170. 
Violet,  Canada,  25. 
Violet,  dog's-tooth,  26. 
Violet,  English,  109. 
Violet,  great-spurred,  170. 
Violet,  round-leaved  yellow,  26. 
Violet,  white,  25. 
Vireo,  red-eyed   {Vireo  olivaceus), 

nest  of,  71,  72. 
Vireo,  warbling  ( Vireo  gilvus),  nest 

of,  71. 
Virgil,  quotations  from,  7,  174 ;  18, 

28. 

Walls,  stone,  243,  244. 

Walnut,  black,  55. 

Warbler,  Blackburnian  {Dendroica 
blackburnice),  46. 

Warbler,  black-throated  blue  {Den- 
droica  ccerulescens),  a  faithful 
mother,  75,  76  ;  nest  of,  74-76. 

Warbler,     blue    yellow-backed    or 


INDEX 


271 


parula  (Compsothlypis    america- 

na),  46  ;  eggs  of,  212. 
Warbler,    Connecticut    {Geothlypis 

agilis),  211. 
Warbler,  yellow  red-poll  or  yellow 

palm  {Dendroica  palmaruin  hypo- 

chrysea),  appearance  and  habits 

of,  166  ;  notes  of,  166. 
Warblers,  songs  of  migrating,  168. 
Wasp,  17,  19,  176. 
Watercress,  164,  165. 
Water-lily.     See  Pond-lily. 
Water-thrush,    Louisiana    {Seiurus 

motacilla),  spring  arrival  of,  169 ; 

song  of,  169. 
Waxwing,  cedar.    See  Cedar-bird. 
Weasel,  or  ermine,  or  stoat  (Puto- 

rhis  erminea),  habits  of,  85-87, 

206. 
Weather  signs,  5-8,  14,  15,  16. 
White,  Gilbert,  3,  16,  21,  108,  109. 
Whitman,   Walt,  quotations  from, 

151,  159,  160 ;  157  ;  sea-salt  in  his 

poetry,  159-161. 
Whittier,  John    Greenleaf,    quota- 
tions from,  42,  43,  92. 
Willow,  174. 
Willow,  golden,  179. 
Wilson,  Alexander,  143. 
Winter,  familiarity  of  wild  creatures 

in,  128,  129  ;  alternation  of  severe 

and  mild  winters,  163  ;  animal  life 

in  open  winters,  164. 
Wolf,  49. 
Woodbine,  134. 
Woodpecker,     downy      {Dry  abates 

pubescens),  a  welcome  neighbor, 


135 ;  winter-quarters,  136-140, 
147  ;  an  ungallant  male,  136,  137  ; 
drumming  of,  140-142,  144,  146; 
mating,  142,  144  ;  leaving  winter- 
quarters,  146,  147  ;  nest  of,  147, 
148. 

Woodpecker,  hairy  {Dryobaies  villo- 
sus),  usurping  a  downy  woodpeck- 
er's hole,  147  ;  notes  of,  147. 

Woodpecker,  pileated,  or  black  log- 
cock  {Ceophlceiis  pilealus),  125, 
143  ;  notes  of,  125. 

Woodpecker,  red-bellied  {Melaner- 
pes  carolimis),  143,  144. 

Woodpecker,  red-headed  {Melaner- 
pes  erythrocephnlus),  53  ;  drum- 
ming on  a  lightning-rod,  143  ;  203. 

Woodpecker,  yellow-bellied,  or  yel- 
low-bellied sapsucker  {Sphyra- 
picus  varius),  injuring  fruit-trees, 

144,  145 ;  tapping  a  maple-tree, 

145,  146. 

Woodpeckers,  their  fare  in  winter, 

51,  57;  83;  drumming  habits  of, 

140-144  ;  young  of,  203. 
Woods,  struggle  for  life  of  trees  in, 

47  ;   autumnal  beauty  of  mixed, 

47. 
Woods,  hard,  for  finishing  houses, 

258-261. 
Wordsworth,     William,     quotation 

from,  32. 
Wren,   house  {Troglodytes  aMon), 

73,  212  ;  nest  of,  147,  203. 

Yellowbird.    See  Groldfincb,  Ameri- 


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